


What We Do

by Bored_Panda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Castration, Cheating, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, John is an idiot, M/M, Parent!lock, Rosie Watson - Freeform, Sad!John, Sad!Sherlock, Self-Harm, Sherlock is an idiot, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violence, cut-cut, in-progress, mystrade, there'sapedophile, we'llprobablychangethenameguys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2019-09-30 22:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 40
Words: 67,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17232707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bored_Panda/pseuds/Bored_Panda
Summary: It starts off with pain and it ends with something better.[Co-written with PickleCam. (Addressed as such by request of herself.)]Heartbreaking fic trailer put together by amazing Camcam: https://vimeo.com/332515080





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson had just had a row with the chip and pin machine. And then he’d been nearly run over by the idiot London traffic. And then it had started raining. In short- John Watson was having a terrible day. He had gotten off work early, at least, planning to surprise Sherlock with the biscuits he’d brought him- knowing that it was the only thing that the detective would eat without being forced to have food shoved down his mouth.

Though he was drenched, John hummed quietly to himself as he unlocked the door and bound upstairs, smiling at Mrs Hudson in greeting as she poked her head out to see who it was. The doctor walked upstairs and threw the door open, holding out the bag of biscuits, “Brought you these. God- it’s horrible outside,” he said, shaking himself before looking up at Sherlock- Sherlock kissing another man. The doctor dropped his bag in surprise, backing up. Perhaps this was just a hallucination- the simple result of a bad day. But the doctor knew well that his eyes weren’t betraying him. His heart was. It was beating loud and clear as he dashed down the stairs again, the only person he trusted having betrayed him.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

It wasn't harmful. He wasn't doing anything wrong. Well, he was, but as long as John never knew about it, it wouldn't hurt anyone. That's what Sherlock thought, as he started this relationship with Max. He felt guilty every time the young man left the flat, but in the meantime... It was so good. So thrilling, for the detective, it was a new way to not be bored. And he was Sherlock Holmes, he could manage to hide an another relationship easily"....John." He said, his voice hoarse from the passionate kiss he had shared with his lover. "John, it's not..." But the doctor was already running away. After a glance to the man-- who had started to pull his trousers up, Sherlock followed John. "Wait, let me explain!

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John felt his eyes burn, running outside back into the rain, grabbing his coat. His mind replayed the scene over and over again as he simply refused for tears to strike down his face. The doctor wove through the crowd, pushing at people and not bothering to apologize to the blurs that were bypassing him with angry glares. The looks were nothing compared to the expression that Sherlock had worn. The shock and guilt and somehow… the expressions had managed to look evil and alien on him. Sherlock was supposed to be different. Sherlock was supposed to be the only one that wouldn’t hurt him. The doctor chuckled darkly to himself as the naive thought crossed his mind. He ran for hours before finding himself lost along one of the sides of the river Thames. John leant against the railing for support, breathing heavily before simply allowing for his feet to give out. The doctor slid along the railing and onto the floor, salty tears burning through his skin as he felt the sadness finally set in.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock had tried to follow John. With everything he had, he ran after him, but soon, the crowd swallowed the doctor, fading him away, making him disappearing. Sherlock was panting from the race, and from the pain stabbing his heart. It carved a hole inside his chest. He had lost John, and all this because he had been careless. Because he had accepted to let Max in when he knocked to the door without warning, promising to stay only a few minutes. Obviously, it got out of control, and it was this day that John chose to not come back at home as late as Sherlock thought. Sighing, he quickly typed a text to the doctor : "Where are you? SH" Then an another "We need to talk. SH"

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The doctor felt his pocket buzz with a notification. He didn't even bother looking, sobs racketing his body as his emotions blocked him from breathing. He gasped loudly and shakily, hyperventilating with the water traveling down his face and making his face splotchy and red. The doctor grasped at the ground, trying to find something to hold, anything to ground him, but ended up turning, curling in on himself while resting his head against the railing and clinging to the metal as if it could take the fact of the matter away. His pocket buzzed once more and the doctor hastily thrusted his left hand into his coat, pulling out the device before chucking it into the water behind him. It was fruitless to force his breathing to even out. John had _killed_ a man for _him_ . He'd survived through him killing his wife. Through him… killing his daughter. And _this_ was what Sherlock gave in return. John's sobs now had hiccups in the and the doctor hoped he could simply choke and go out with asphyxiation.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock was growing worried as he didn't get any answer to his texts. Slowly, he walked toward Baker Street. There was no point in pacing randomly in London's streets, without any clues about where John was. "Don't do anything stupid. SH" He climbed up the stairs to his flat. Max was dressed, his clothes rumpled from the hurry. He tried to kiss the detective, but Sherlock shook his head. "Thanks for the biscuits. SH" Swallowing thickly, he sat down in his armchair, looking John's. "...You can leave for now." He said softly to Max.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John straightened to his feet, able to breathe the tiniest bit now. He stuffed his hands into his coat, mentally thanking himself that he'd kept his wallet in it before running. He pulled it out and made his way to the fish and chips stand, ordering a basket and paying. Fish and chips. Nearly the only good thing about being John Watson. The doctor had no heart to eat them. He walked a ways before stopping, staring down at them before he looked around, feeling nauseous all of the sudden he made his way over to a bench with a scraggly looking man, giving his food away. He walked with his eyes closed in a random direction after- though he knew how dangerous it was to do so in London. What did it matter? Sherlock probably wasn't even looking for him. The doctor turned his lip up at the corner in a sad and betrayed smile.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Max slid a hand in Sherlock's soft curl, kissing his pale jaw despite the grunt of protest of the detective. "Mhm... 'ts going to be fine, honey." The young man said, caressing Sherlock's forearm. "I have to go back at my flat. See you later, yeah? I'm sorry he saw." Max left, grabbing his leather jacket. Sherlock's heart was torn. He had loved John, and he had loved him more than he ever thought possible by sociopathic standards. He hadn't planned to get affected, to grow bounded at Max somehow. But he had. Emotionally, as well as sexually. The detective sighed sadly, checked his phone every four seconds. John wasn't replying. It was getting worrying. "Come back. He left. SH" He quickly typed an another message. "At least tell me you're fine. SH"

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John refused to love Sherlock. He was done. The doctor found his way back into the busy streets of London, wandering and ignoring his on-fire shoulder. The saddest part of it all was that John understood why. He understood that the detective had gotten bored. That he needed more that John but needed John all the same. Well sucked to be Sherlock because the doctor was going someplace that he prayed the detective wouldn't follow him. John himself didn't know what place it was but figured if he wandered around enough-- he would find it.

 

He never truly did. The doctor found himself walking towards 221B. Not for Sherlock- no. For Mrs Hudson. Right now, he needed a place to stay away from the prying eyes of anyone around him and he was sure that the landlady would invite him into her guest bedroom for the night. He unlocked the door- hating the memories that the simple action brought back. John averted his eyes, assuming that Sherlock had gone off with his boyfriend and left his flatmate alone. Good. John wasn't Sherlock's boyfriend. Not anymore. He had been once- but never again.

 

He knocked on the door to 221A, clearing his eyes of tears the best he could and walked in when he was invited for dinner. Mrs Hudson had made flatbread pizza but John was in much less of a state to eat and more of one to simply cease existing. He excused himself to the bedroom, claiming that Sherlock had done an experiment in the doctor's room (though the two of them had started sharing the same room a year or so after Mary had died)- who in turn had been left without a place for the night. His landlady smiled and left him alone, going back to the kitchen to resume her own supper.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John hadn't answered, and Sherlock's mind got wild. It was out of control, imagining everything that could have happened to John, and especially the worst. It was a rainy day, in London, and John was desperate. Sherlock got up from his sofa, paced into the living-room. Walking without knowing wouldn't bring John back, but it would make him less feel as if he was useless. He needed to act. Needed to do something. Sherlock grabbed his coat and left the flat, without even warning his landlady. Once outside, he shivered. It was getting cold, and night was falling on the city. Sherlock felt his heart aching in an odd way. The scent of the rain was mixed up with this feeling the night would never end.

 

He had lost John.


	2. Chapter 2

Once outside, he shivered. It was getting cold, and night was falling on the city. Sherlock felt his heart aching in an odd way. The scent of the rain was mixed up with this feeling the night would never end. 

 

He had lost John.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, stretched out on the unfamiliar bed. Thinking back on it- the comfort of his and Sherlock's bed had been a deceptive hell. The feel of his hands on his skin. The whisperings of  _ I love you's _ that had taken place during quiet moments around the flat. It had all been a covin. The doctor felt as if his heart had been carved out and then served raw on a dish, of which Sherlock had cut up and served a slice to his "boyfriend" before cutting a slice for himself. In short- Sherlock and the other man had ripped up John's heart and had eaten it for dinner.

The doctor felt shame run through him as he thought of all the intimate moments that the pair of himself and Sherlock had shared. The cheek-kisses and breakfast making. Forcing the detective to dance to pop music with him. John rolled in on himself, tears tracking down his face once more as his body tried to expel each and every moment Sherlock and he had shared. Eventually, the man fell into a restless sleep, unknowingly screaming (quite loudly)- all caused by the first nightmares he'd had in a long time. By some miracle, Mrs Hudson and made a last-minute trip over to her sister's, leaving a note in the kitchen while John had still been awake. The man was in torture, and it didn’t matter to the still-asleep if the whole of the flat could hear it. What did it matter if they did? They’d give him pitying looks and sympathy. A high probably of disgust, too. But all that, John would take, because no matter what anyone did, positive or negative, no one would ever be able to fix him.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock only came back in what seemed to be hours since he left. But dawn wasn't even close to appearing in the sky, therefore it must have only been one or two hours of intense walking… at best. Obviously, it had lead Sherlock nowhere, and exhausted, heart torn by the guilt, by the happiness he had lost and would never get back. 

 

Sherlock came back to the flat, his willpower unable to force his legs to move aimlessly across London anymore. His steps were heavy and tears rolled down his cheeks silently. He quickly dried them as he entered Baker Street’s hallway. There was no noises to be heard but as he approached the stairs, he thought he heard something coming from Mrs.Hudson's flat. He called her. And nobody answered, so, he entered, adrenaline rushing through his veins. It may be only his imagination, but better safe than sorry. And then, he recognized it. John's nightmares. Silently, he entered the room and leaned against the doorframe, hesitating. "Hey. Wake up. You're safe, John."

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John thrashed more violently than he had been doing before-- his mind now filled with the voice of his ex-boyfriend. He was trapped in his head, down a deep hole and there was no way in hell that he could see himself even  _ trying  _ to get out. His eyes subconsciously scrunched tighter as the asleep man tried his best to get away from the deep baritone that had been etched in his head for so long, once giving him a sense of love and adoration. Now... it was just a curse. 

 

John couldn't wake up. He was falling. And falling. And falling. There was no bottom to talk of, just an abyss that John fell harder into. Somewhere along the unconsciousness, the doctor had turned the wordless screams into something much more horrific. Considering that Sherlock's voice had only set his mind off in hurt, the doctor unknowingly screamed the man's name in true and absolute fear, still scrambling to get away. Of course, John didn't know it was all happening. He would feel his voice hoarse in the morning- the only sign that he'd been shouting at all. "Sherlock! No- get away, please. I don’t-," he broke off into another tortured  _ scream _ , arching his back up. It had never been this bad. Ever. Even when he'd seen his brothers and sisters die at war. And even though he’d never admit it, it was worse than when he’d lost the woman he loved. This was pure pain, rooted deep in the doctor's heart.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock could listen to the noise of his heart breaking into his chest, crushing under the weight of the guilt, of the screams of John. It was killing him. He wanted to go to his flat to get his violin and play for John. To sooth him like he had used to. But this time,  _ he _ was the problem.  _ He _ was the one causing John his pain. He approached, carefully touching, squeezing John's shoulder. "Wake up." He begged. "John, wake up, it's over. Please, open your eyes. I'll leave, but open your eyes. I can’t take seeing you in pain, please.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John felt the arm on his hand, eyes hazy and his head in memory of a dream that he couldn’t remember, and scrambled away from it as he finally woke up. He moved, back to the wall, still on the bed of which Sherlock was reached over. He averted his eyes, knowing that he would only feel his chest being ripped if looked at the man's face-- knowing that it had been cupped, kissed, and had done  _ god knew _ what else with another. 

 

The doctor took in a shaky breath, running his fingers through his grown-out hair before chuckling quietly to himself. He'd grown it out for Sherlock. The detective had always scrambled for his scalp in an attempt to intertwine his fingers in the doctor's hair when the two of them had been sensually together.

 

Thinking back on it- John had built himself for Sherlock, changing the way he dressed, shaved, _everything_. He forced his heart rate to calm down, afraid that he'd simply have a heart attack in front of his ex. That would most definitely be the worst way to go. He breathed in sharply this time, more collected. He stood up, still not daring to look at his ex-flatmate. John pushed the sheets off of him, untangling himself as he walked out of the room and heading for the door.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock felt the urge to follow John, to grab him and to kiss him silly. Like a kiss could clean away the bad he had done. But he was sure John would believe his lips would taste like Max's. Another part of Sherlock wanted him to lay down on the bed, to be uncaring and essentially  _ emotionless _ , to give John his room. But he couldn't. He couldn't let John go again, not after having worried so much. "No." He grabbed his wrist, gently pulling at it. "What you saw.... What you saw wasn't a mistake." His voice cracked. "It happened. Many times. While you were working, mostly. Sometimes, when I pretended to go the labs to work." He breathed in. "But. But it doesn't... John. It doesn't change that I.... When I was with you. I thought about you. Not about him.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John froze completely as he heard the detective’s confession. Of course. Of course  _ Sherlock…  _ sociopath, machine. Monster. Of course would've done this. He felt his eyes well up in the slightest but he only turned and looked at the detective head on before looking up and blinking in order to press the water back. He sniffed harshly. Not for this man. No. Absolutely not. John would not cry in front of this man nor would he cry for this man. The soldier set his feet even at shoulder-length of width before taking two neat steps and landing a perfect punch to the underside of the man's jaw. The same jaw he'd kissed. The same jaw he'd looked up at through a sleepy-haze. The same jaw he'd patched up all the many times that a criminal had decided to take a shot at making the detective bleed. He shook his fist lightly as he stepped back again, not looking at the man, but instead looking straight ahead in front of him. 

He walked to the door of 221A, opened it before walking out and closing it behind him. He walked up the stairs to flat 221B, opening the door and looking down at the bags that had been abandoned in front of him. The doctor quirked up his lip as he saw the faint outline of the box of biscuits. The same biscuits that John's wiped crumbs of off himself. The same biscuits he'd gifted Sherlock on any occasion. The same biscuits that the doctor had lovingly bought the man whom he had loved. He reached down into the bag, pulling out the blue box with the familiar logo before walking over into the kitchen- still refusing memories to resurface as he dropped the box unflinchingly into the rubbish bin.

 

John Watson had been an idiot. And now he was paying for it. He didn't look around the flat, knowing that if he looked into the living room that he'd see the scene play in front of his eyes again. He kept his eyes trained firmly in front of him as he made his way upstairs and packed his army duffle, not having the energy to pack and move out completely. 

 

When he did move out- he would do it without anyone's help. He would do it without allowing for Sherlock or anyone else to touch his items. He wouldn't allow for any more memories. Any more conning help. 

 

John slung the bag over his shoulder, looking down as he climbed back down the stairs, into the living room, exiting the flat, and then moving on downstairs and planning to go out to the door to God-knew-where.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John was a strong man. He had been to the army, and his fists on the cases helped the both of them to escape unexpected situation. But the pain Sherlock felt as his lover hit him that way, silently, without even one word to justify his act, it hurt Sherlock's heart much more than it hurt Sherlock’s jaw. He stepped back, instinctively touching his face, checking his bone, protecting himself. And then, John was gone. He heard him climbing up the stairs. 

  
  


The detective couldn't let the doctor go. He knew he had messed up a lot, but he couldn't let the man he loved leaving without a word. They needed to talk. He wanted to hear John screaming and punching him if it was it took, and even if eventually it leaded to their break up. But Sherlock wouldn't let John leaving before they had an actual, real discussion. So, knowing what the doctor would do next, he locked the door leading to the streets and started preparing a tea. He was careful to not accidentally prepare the soothing herb that Mrs Hudson used for her hips, and instead, chose a nice, classic menthol tea. Two cups, in their landlady's living-room. It was a neutral scene. The door was locked, and he knew John would understand what's going on. But he still wrote a message that he pinned to the wall: 

 

"Let's speak. SH

PS : I love you."

 

Because yes, he did. He loved John. He loved the sweet mornings, the soft gestures of affection, their kisses. He loved being in love with John, but everything was sweet, quiet, comfortable. It was both amazing and a curse.

 

He chose Max because with him, it had no consequences. It didn’t matter if he wasn't gentle and slow. Sherlock would never have dared to hurt John, but with Max, he could. He could scratch red marks all along his muscular back, he would make him whine from anticipation and whimper from aching need. He could watch him curling up his toes from overwhelming desire in a way he wouldn't dare to touch John.

  
  


John was no longer thrilling. It didn't mean Sherlock didn't love him in soft, comfortable, familiar way.

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


Of course the bastard had locked the door. John adjusted the duffle higher up on his shoulder. This was ridiculous. The doctor read the note- the pain in his chest not being helped by the paper. No, no- Sherlock really didn't. There had been something about John that Sherlock had lost interest in. Something that they'd lost along the way. He exhaled shakily, figuring he could simply pick the lock but then again, he didn't have the materials he needed. The lock-picks he used were Sherlock's and what was Sherlock's wasn't his anymore. John was very close to a dead man. He sighed and pushed to door open to two two one A, looking at Sherlock making tea. Tea that the doctor didn't dare touch. He set his bag down by the doorway and crossed one leg over the other while doing the same with his arms across his chest.

 

The jaw would bruise. Good. Perhaps it was even broken. Even better. Sherlock deserved it. More than he had deserved what John'd given him once he'd come back from the fall. He deserved it more than anything. John looked at the man unflinchingly. Steely. Even. Straight. "You don't- you know," he said in a clear tone, making his words obvious. "You really don't. So unlock the door and let me leave, Holmes." He'd addressed Sherlock as Mr Holmes the first few times they'd met when John hadn't known him at all. And it felt that John didn't know him now, either. His relationship had been constructed on lie upon lie. His voice remained of even loudness through, as if the pair of them were simply discussing a case or that Sherlock needed to make the bed in the mornings. John quirked his lips at the thought. Right. Well- he wouldn't have to deal with that anymore. 

Perhaps this was a good thing. Maybe John could even get laid properly for the first time in three years. He ran his hands over his face- exhausted and looking very much forward to getting away from his inane flatmate.

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


Sherlock's heart sunk when he heard his lover calling him Holmes. It was terrible. It was like if he had never hugged the body of John between his arms, caressing his skin and kissing the nightmares away. Like if he hadn't spent hours awake, in the middle of the night, to play violin to help John to fall asleep. Like if he hadn't slid breakfast boxes in John's bag when he left to go at work, and pretending it was Mrs.Hudson. Like if he hadn't killed himself to protect John's life. Like if he hadn't silently being beaten up for John to express his pain to have lost his wife and child. Like if he hadn't come back from death and from Hell, like if he hadn't got tortured for the sake of John. "....Yes, I do." He answered, sitting down once the tea was ready. "I love you. You don't have to believe it. Sit down, and we'll talk. And then, I'll unlock the door." He breathed in shakily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, Co-writer!Camcam is fantastic.


	3. Chapter 3

"I love you. You don't have to believe it. Sit down, and we'll talk. And then, I'll unlock the door." He breathed in shakily.

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


It didn't matter what the detective had done for him. John knew of the torture, his own ex-lover's nightmares. Good thing Sherlock had Max now. John walked over carefully, standing inside the room but not sitting down. This was good as it was going to get. Sherlock had brought this upon himself and John. For fuck's sake the man had died for John and now this was all the respect Sherlock had for the life he saved? Saved more or less. The doctor had initiated the relationship with his flatmate- perhaps it had been his fault then. Or maybe he should've have grabbed a coffee on the 29th of January- effectively not running into Mike. 

  
  


Maybe John shouldn't have come home from the war.

  
  


The doctor allowed for his eyes to bore into Sherlock, not caring if it made the detective uncomfortable. The two of them stayed in silence for a while before John finally forced words out of his mouth, "How long?" He cleared his throat and tried again, his voice having come out in a coarse, strained whisper, "How long have you been-" He cut off, unable to form the rest of his words.

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


John's eyes on him made Sherlock uncomfortable but he refused to show it. He had to be confident if he wanted to have a chance to explain everything properly. "A few months." He simply answered, breathing in and out before he kept speaking. "It started a few months ago. We met on the Internet. He was a fan of my blog. We talked. I gave him my number, and he sent me a picture of..." The detective cleared his throat. "It was all. For a while. We were only flirting with each other. Then... I met him in  a hotel. And then here." He quickly added. "Not in our room. Never in our room. Just..." He glanced down. "Just once. Or twice."

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


John breathed in sharply, forcing himself to stay still. He was a soldier. Soldiers didn't run. He planted his feet still, knowing that a moment's hesitation in his resolve would cause the doctor to simply break the door open. Their room. Right. Of course. A fan of his blog? No. That was John's blog. John had written their memories. He'd been the one to chapter their adventures in words, showing it off too the world. This is my mad, genius boyfriend that loves me as much as I love him. We do inane things together, etcetera, etcetera. John looked at the floor briefly cursing himself for ever charting them down in the first place. He nodded to himself. "Right. Well, good talk. I'm leaving." This was enough. John would figure out how to carve out Sherlock from his life or simply just carve out his own life. 

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the cup of tea, trying to give himself something to touch and express his nerves on, but he didn't drink. His throat was dry, squeezing the lump of sadness inside it. "You don't have to leave. You're not the one who acted... Who did this. I’ll leave." He paused, looking for words he couldn't find. "I'm sorry. I truly am. I never intended to hurt you, and for what it is worth, I've never planned to leave you for him either. It was just... Don't take this as a fact I don't love you anymore, because that’s not true. I love you, John. And I think I did enough for you to not have to prove it again." He bit his lower lip. "I don't want you to leave " Sherlock confessed sadly. 

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


“You thINK, I can live here without seeing that scene play in my head ovER and oVER?” John’s breathing had picked up, his words coming out raspy but on the very edge of being a simple shout. He tried his best to force his volume down. He wouldn’t waste his throat for this man. Not after John had trusted him so, only to be ripped apart. He angled his body, right foot in front and leaning his torso the lightest bit. “You could have told me, you know? That you needed him.” John breathed in sharply, his voice rough and tortured in a forced whisper again, “We could have done this right. I would’ve left under good terms with you.” The doctor leaned back momentarily collecting himself. When he spoke again, his throat had given out, not having the energy to actually sound to intertwine his voice through the words, “I’m leaving anyways, at least I would’ve left as your friend.”

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


Sherlock swallowed thickly. His fingers trembled a little and some of his tea spilled all over the table. He didn't need Max. It wasn't that easy. "John." But Sherlock had never been good at expressing how he felt. It was why everyone thought he had no feelings. Because he wasn't made to shout and scream and cry. He did all theses things. He felt theses urges but he spent most of his life fighting against them, and hiding when there was no way but sobbing. "...John." He looked up to the doctor, hoping he could read into his eyes. "I don't love him. Not... Not like I love you. I'm not saying I feel nothing at all for him. It has been unexpected, I confess. But it's a lot different from what I feel for you." He paused, striving to explain. "You are... You are so... So yourself. And with him. With him, I can try... Different things. I can.... I can allow myself to be a different man. A bad man. A man you wouldn't love. I can hurt him, I can...." He closed his eyes. 

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


For the first time in hell, John felt a hint of amusement crawl up through him. The smirk and the twinkle in his eye came up, pushing it's way past all the other thoughts. This was about  _ sex _ ? Hell, if John Watson wasn’t the kinkiest man he knew! The doctor tried his best to stifle down his sudden amusement but this was simply too silly. Two seconds after it's appearance, it vanished again, replacing the man with dead eyes and a tired face. He walked towards the armchair across from Sherlock and sat in it- exhaling as he usually did when he sat down on an armchair. He crossed his right foot over his left knee and rested his head on two fingers of his left hand. Though the man's relaxed posture looked as if he was discussing gossip as a mentor would do with a teenager, the truth was that he was ready for any war that Sherlock might throw at him- full and high on defense. He closed his eyes, pressing further into his hand before opening them again, "Sherlock?"

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


Sherlock's lower lip was shaking. He had noticed the red circles around John's eyes, had been obliged to hear helplessly to the screams of pain of his lover. It was killing him, to know he was the one causing it. Even if he didn't want to hurt his boyfriend, even if he had done anything he could to make it works. It was killing him to know he had dared to make John Watson cry, again and again, by his love. If he had never met him, Sherlock would be an unhappy man, but John would be free. Everything was his fault, and piece by piece, it was destroying the painful confidence he had built up, the happiness and the comfort he had made. His throat tightened, his eyes became blurry, and he wanted to... To escape. He was afraid to live, terrified to breath for one more second.

  
  


Sherlock didn't say anything. He could no longer act like if he was strong. He had lost the most important person in his life, had destroyed everything, almost accidentally.

Silently, he left the room, feeling the tears overwhelming him. He rushed inside what used to be their flat, their room, and at the sight of John's empty armchair, he broke down.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written with amazing!PickleCam


	4. Chapter 4

Silently, he left the room, feeling the tears overwhelming him. He rushed inside what used to be their flat, their room, and at the sight of John's empty armchair, he broke down.

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


John held unflinchingly still as if Sherlock hadn't simply just fled. Once the doctor heard the door to flat 221B slam shut, he finally exhaled shakily. He uncrossed his legs, slouching a bit and keeping his fingers in the same position. How the hell had it come to this. It was still truly unbelievable and never-excusable, what Sherlock had done. John couldn't even wrap his mind around it. Perhaps it was so because he was the most loyal person to anyone that had the pleasure of meeting him. The doctor stood, knee giving out immediately as he did so. Brilliant. John took in a deep breath, realizing that he'd forgotten his coat upstairs. Even better. It was fine. John would walk in. He'd get his coat. He'd walk out and away. He forced himself onto his legs, clenching his teeth as his knee tried to rip itself out of his leg… or something like that. He made it quickly to the door-wall of 221A, breathing heavily and exhaling forcefully as he felt the joint practically ignite. 

 

Not good. Still, there was work to be done. 

 

John made his way up the stairs, his leg screaming in agony with each step as his heart did the same, each and every now-painful memory that had been made on these stairs running through his head as the pain ran through his nerves. He reached the final step and held onto the wooden raining, calming his breath and taking his weight off his hurt leg. The rushing through his head calmed down and once John had worked past the self-pity of being invalided, he subconsciously listened on high-alert around him. That was... odd. John walked his way over to the door of 221B, hearing quiet sobs from inside it. That was wrong. Sherlock Holmes didn't cry. This was all suddenly as awkward as it was painful. After all- Sherlock had comforted him the same during nightmares and the grieving of his wife and child. He knocked on the door cautiously, feeling disgustingly out of place, "Err- Sherlock," God- this was so fucked. He cleared his throat and tried again, the words cutting through him worse pain than the bullet through his shoulder had given him. "The bloke- you shouldn't, uh... cry." John's voice had grown quieter as he continued on. Soldier, John. To hell what happens to you. He knocked again, "Max'll be there. You won't be bored, don't worry." Unlike John, Sherlock wouldn't be lonely. At least the bastard had that. John wouldn't wish loneliness on Moriarty, even.

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


Lost in his sadness and despair, Sherlock didn't hear John climbing up the stairs. Otherwise, he would have locked himself up in his room before he came in. But now, it was too late. John had heard, there was no point in denying anything. The detective turned to be back at his ex-lover. His shoulders were shaking violently under the sobs he could no longer control. He was panting and for a long while, he was left totally unable to tell anything. He could barely cover his face in his hands. "Y-you c-can leave." The detective hated knowing John was seeing him in such a broken state, but there was no way he could control himself. His body was betraying him. His feelings were betraying him. He didn't want to be pitied nor forgiven, John had every rights to blame him. After all, he had cheated on the love of his life. "The k-key... On the counter. Mrs.Hudson's k-kitchen." Gasping between his tears, breathing wasn't enough. He felt as if he could die from this complicated despair. "Max. Ha. No. He won't." Sherlock sniffed awkwardly. "He's not... It's not like this. D-doesn't matter. Leave."

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


As much as the doctor didn't want to feel anything for hurting his Sherlock, it couldn't be helped. John felt his own skin itch at how much Sherlock had hurt himself as much as he'd hurt the doctor. Nothing that John could do now. He nodded to himself, following Sherlock's words and forcing his way back down, his everything hurting. As John closed the door to his old home, he couldn't help but be lost on his head. Oh, Sherlock. What've you done? The doctor felt anger spike up again. Sherlock was a man who knew exactly what he had done. And there was no way that he would have John's sympathy. John needed something. Anything. Without bothering to remember the bag, John hastily unlocked the door, pulling it closed by the knocker habitually. He jogged back over to the bridge this time choosing a secluded spot away from any foot traffic. He swung one leg over before swinging the other, knowing that a very strong wind would push him over. Didn't matter. John needed the danger. He needed to almost die again. He had almost died before and god it was something. Perfect. Just what John needed. His legs tingled at the height and his face was flushed with the night cold, not having grabbed his coat from upstairs after all. 

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


Somehow, Sherlock ended up curled up in what used to be their shared bed, their nest of love and sweetness, wearing John's loose and too short jumper. Somehow, he ended up pulling the blankets over his head, gasping and sobbing endlessly in his castle of sheets. The tears ended up fading away, his eyes dry, and so started the headache, throbbing inside his skull. He didn't up to grab medication, not trusting himself to not empty a bottle, out of despair. 

He just stayed here, until morning, and even after. Alone.

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


John found a hand on his shoulder as he had eventually zoned out, looking at the grimy water below him. "You alright, mate? Not too safe sitting there, is it?" The voice was deep, but not a smooth baritone as Sherlock's was. In fact, this man had more of a rugged and rough voice. Oh great, the doctor was still comparing insignificant goldfishes to his ex-boyfriend. John turned around and jumped back on the safe side of the bridge, looking up at the man, mumbling a response, "No- not too safe. Thanks." He turned around and started walking in a random direction, not at all hesitating to get lost in the crowd. Anything that got him away from his thoughts. 

 

John had walked all through the night and was well into the morning. He walked into a park, watching the sun rise over an never-dimming London. John would need to get out of town. Would have to move. He was done with the battlefields he'd seen. One he'd was in Afghanistan and the other, with Sherlock in London. Getting locum and living in a dingy flat wasn't too hard no matter what location he was in.

But then again- John couldn't simply stay away from London. It was home. And he'd given everything up for Sherlock anyways- he wasn't ready to lose his home for the man too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SuperCamille ~°=


	5. Chapter 5

But then again- John couldn't simply stay away from London. It was home. And he'd given everything up for Sherlock anyways- he wasn't ready to lose his home for the man too.

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


When Sherlock pushed the sheets away, he could see the light filling the room through the closed curtains, hitting the floor and drawing odd patterns of light on it. He avoided them, and avoided looking at them, staying in the darkness. Painstakingly, he got up, went straight to the kitchen to prepare himself a tea he wouldn't drink. His eyes were circled in red, puffy, and despites his efforts to rub them, nothing worked. The marks of his tears stayed. 

 

He wondered where John could have been and if he was fine, he worried over him, but he didn't dare to call him. 

 

Eventually, he went straight to his sofa, his knees close to his chest. He had no more tears to cry, but he had to carry the weight of his broken heart.

  
  


-x-x-x-x

John found himself pushed against a wall, hands roaming across the body that was kissing him slowly and with sensuality. The man that had gotten him off the bridge had also somehow convinced John that sex would be the easiest way to get rid of his thoughts of his ex. And what was John Watson if he wasn't desperate to do exactly that. The doctor had tipped his head up, meeting the stranger's lips with his own before deepening the kiss into more of a passionate and angry one. And it seemed that it was the same that the man wanted. He moaned as he allowed for the doctor to take his anger out on him before pulling back hastily, hailing a cab in hurry. John turned his head to the stranger, taking in more of his detail. Too rugged, not clean shaven, brown eyes. Wrong wrong wrong wrong. John momentarily closed his eyes, banishing his comparisons and keeping them locked away as he attacked the man's lips again, his hands travelling to grip the side of the man’s head in them. Within minutes, they were both at the stranger's home, making out like teenagers. Or like one of them had a broken heart. John pulled back barely, lips still close to the other's. "What do you want?" He smirked when he heard the reply.

  
  


"Tie me up. I'm yours for the night." 

  
  


John allowed for himself to be led into a bedroom and then handed a bag of dark black rope. He looked down at it, his mind momentarily going blank. Sherlock's pale skin would look beautiful in this. The doctor swallowed, chastising himself for thinking the thoughts. He'd thought of them with Sherlock. During all their vanilla sex. It had pestered the back of his mind- how he would make his detective beg. John huffed out a dry laugh, before looking up at the stranger. 

  
  


"On the bed. Now."

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


The faint noises of footsteps getting closer to his flat didn't give false hope to Sherlock. He immediately recognized the differences, the way both legs were pressing the same way on the floor, instead of that slight, tiny sound of John's hurt leg, instinctively shy and taking extra care to prevent pains that he didn’t have anymore, all of which he would always know about the doctor, even if nobody else would. It made his heartache, and the sight of the young man pushing the door open with a bag full of gingersnap biscuits didn't make him feel better. "Max." He muttered, turning his head away to hide the marks his tears had left. 

  
  


The man leaned over, kissed the top of his curls, and settled the bag on the low table. "Hello. I guess it didn't go well, 'arling..." 

  
  


Sherlock rolled his eyes in a tired way. Max wasn't exactly stupid, well, he was, but he wasn't totally dumb. On a good day, Sherlock could have complimented him to be smarter than average... But not as smart as John. John was clever, more clever than he thought. The doctor didn't trust himself enough. The memory of John's tears carved a wider  a hole into his chest. 

  
  


Max cleared his throat, feeling awkward. "Baby... Listen. It had to happen at some point, right?" He sat down next to the detective, caressing his legs. "Think about the good stuff. We're free to do whatever we want, whenever you want."

  
  


Sherlock frowed, an odd idea crossing his mind. It was just an idea, nothing else, but he couldn't stop thinking about it. It got bigger, growing until it was nearly the only thing that echoed in his mind. "Hurt me." He muttered. 

  
  


Max startled. "What? Da'ling." He slid his hand higher, touching Sherlock's legs. The detective said once more : "Hurt me." He wanted to be in pain, in so much pain that maybe, it could make the mental one fading away. He knew it wasn't healthy, he knew it wasn't a good thing to think about. He just couldn't help it. 

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


John met the stranger's lips again, pushing him back roughly on the bed before unbuttoning the taller man's shirt. Too muscular, tan, light chest hair. John ignored the thoughts, smoothly following out with his actions. He allowed for the stranger to do the same to John's jumper, unbuttoning and slipping it off his shoulders. The man's eyes were closed. Good. He wouldn't question the scar. John didn't have time for it. The doctor picked up the rope and began tying up the man to the bed, constraining his left hand and looking to him for permission before continuing with his left leg. As John walked to the other side of the bed to do the man's right hand, he looked down at the half-tied figure. He couldn't do this. John couldn't do this. He felt his eyes start up the slightest but blinked them back- not wanting to allow the man to see the doctor's vulnerability. John hastily moved back to the man's side, beginning the process of untying him," I'm sorry. I can't, I-" John's voice cracked as he finished up with the knot of the man's hand, leaving him to undo the one on his leg himself as John walked out of the room. Out of the house. Off the street. 

  
  


He made his way back to 221B Baker Street. He needed his bag. He needed his coat. He needed to leave.

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


The noise of flesh against flesh was loud inside the living-room. Sherlock had refused to do this in the room he shared with John. Now the doctor had left, it was holy. Instead, Max had bent the detective over the kitchen table, after having pushed an old experiment away. There were moans, whimpers, and whines that Sherlock strived to mute as he bit down on his own fist. But it was painful, his head was only held by the first grip Max had on his sensitive curls, and his pale back was lacerated with scratch of pure desire, wild sex, rough embrace. But Sherlock was craving for more, a stronger pain. It wasn't enough for him to feel less guilty, and the sight of John's smile kept haunting his mind. But the heavy scent of Max, and their bodies sweating under the efforts was at least helping. Not much, but it did. "M-More!" Sherlock grunted, reaching out to hurt his lover somehow, to upset him. The young man pushed Sherlock's face against the table, carelessly, and the detective could feel the bruises starting to form. Good. It was good. More bruises, more scratches. More pain. 

  
  


-x-x-x-x

  
  


John climbed up the stairs to the flat, his face flushed, guilty and wishing that he hadn’t forced himself to come here. He concentrated on his own breathing, not wanting to allow his mind to run to anything else. He walked to the door, knocking on it with forced energy. Receiving no answer, John unlocked it with his own key, pushing the door open.  _ Are you fucking kidding me? _ The doctor took in the scene in front of him, Sherlock moaning and writhing, green bruises already forming as the man over him thrust into Sherlock harshly. The doctor reached in and grabbed the handle of the door, carelessly slamming it shut in shock. This was just a dream. Just a nightmare. John's eyes were comically wide, his mouth having unhinged open in the slightest as he forced air in and out of himself. He felt his knee give out the doctor bound down, his weight not being supported by his leg anymore. He caught himself in a crouch and backed up against the wall next to the door of the flat, his hand on the wall behind him for balance- much similar to the way that he'd nearly fallen at the swimming pool- their first encounter with Jim Moriarty.

  
  


Only this was worse. This was hell. 

  
  


John forced himself to stand, putting all his weight on his right leg in punishment. Fine- if his knee was going to hurt, then John Watson was going to give it hell. He walked back downstairs steadily as if his leg wasn't on fire- nearly in complete shock, sadness, and anger. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The white, burning shock of what had just happened hit Sherlock violently at the same time as a particularly vicious thrust of Max, shattering a loud moan out of the shameful detective. "S-Stop!" He said, pushing his lover away. The young man immediately stopped, fearing to have gone too far somehow. Lost in his pleasure, he hadn't heard the door.

  
  


Sherlock knew he had lost John- but even then, he’d had some sort of chance of getting himself forgiven. But now, he had definitively lost his love. Sherlock’s heart shattered brutally inside his ribcage. He wanted to run after John... But for what? It’s not as if John would listen right now- perhaps he wouldn’t listen  _ ever _ . With a sad word, he asked Max to keep going, but he didn’t have the heart to it anymore. The man over him felt it and released him silently, his hand stroking Sherlock's back gently. "...What's wrong, da'ling?" 

  
  


Sherlock shook his head, unable to speak. Then, he grabbed his trousers, quickly pulled them up, and pulled his coat over himself to cover his naked chest, uncaring of the door slamming behind him as he ran. He felt shameful, horrible, but he had... he had to see John. He called out his name as he quickly pushed the door open and ran on the streets, his feet naked.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John slowly walked across the street from the building of flats to the other crosswalk. A dark part of him in the back of his mind silently praying that he'd simply get hit. But when was John Watson's life ever that easy? The doctor had made it to the other side with a million sounds of cars peeping at him from behind, only adding to the doctor's sensitivity to his environment. Too loud. Too bright. Too much. He was probably still visible through the upstairs window and would be ridiculously easy to catch up with. That was a problem. John stiffly started walking faster, throwing all his energy into getting away before simply quitting. It was simply too much for the doctor to take. He ambled along, the chill in the air as a small drizzle of rain started down, he cursed at it, knowing that it would most likely turning into a harsher, pouring rain later. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock noticed someone, a shadow far away, a figure looking like John’s. He increased his pace, pushing the people blocking his view without apologizing, and without plan either. If he managed to catch John, what would he do? He didn't know, but he felt droplet after droplet of rain hitting his face. He kept running, getting slowed down by the crowd, but finally, managing to grab someone's wrist, pulling on it. He thought it was John’s. He prayed it was.

 

”John." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Écrit avec ma merveilleuse Camille.


	6. Chapter 6

down by the crowd, but finally, managing to grab someone's wrist, pulling on it. He thought it was John’s. He prayed it was.

 

”John."

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John felt fingers wrap around his wrist. The doctor was almost completely lost in thought and was paying nearly no attention to his surroundings. Though he was sensitive to his environment, he was still extremely distracted. Without the doctor thinking, his instincts would be in control of his body. John flipped into Captain mode, skillfully twisting his wrist out of the grasp, using his body's momentum created by the twist to sweep the person onto the wall, his forearm blocking their airway and his left arm raised for an offense. Captain John Watson was a mode to be feared, eyes blank and ready to kill. His eyes softened in recognition once he realized who he had pinned up against the wall. Hurt flooded his eyes before the doctor could stop it and turn it anger, leaving him momentarily vulnerable. The doctor blinked for a fraction of a second and when he opened his eyes again, they contained nothing that could be classified short of brick-like, his walls having been put up again.

 

Oh. Sherlock.

 

John reeled back, pulling himself away violently from the detective as if he'd been burnt. He had been. He had been burnt, branded, and scarred.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock really thought he was going to be hit. Or strangled. Or both. But he didn't fight, didn't struggle because he knew he would deserve it. His jaw had already bruised in an ugly pattern of color, and his back was sensitive from the harsh contact of his raw skin rubbing against the coat. His toes were curling up awkwardly on the dirty streets of London, and he felt both pathetic and helpless.

The sparkle of sadness he saw in John's eyes disappeared almost immediately. But it was enough. Enough for the detective to know the doctor still loved him, somehow, a small glimmer of it stayed in the man’s eye, despite his best effort to wall up his feelings. "Please."

  


Sherlock never begged anyone. "John, I.... Please." He didn't try to touch him again, fearing to hurt his ex lover. "I love you. Not him.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John dutifully ignored the man, even though his words were running through him, poisoning his veins, and would most likely eventually stop his breath. He walked on as if he hadn't just seen his once-boyfriend shag someone as soon as he'd left the flat. Pretending that he was fine. This was fine. Jon would have time to feel pain later. Right now, he had to pretend that he was cruel and cold hearted to keep his heart from quitting it’s rhythm. He wouldn’t allow it to even _falter_ in front of Sherlock- who could read the doctor as clearly as John could read a pulse. He would do it within the privacy of loneliness. Do it when he dreamt. He would do it when he was dead. But not now.

 

The doctor turned on his heel, looking straight at Sherlock for what he hoped was the last time, hissing out," What do you want from me, Sherlock? I can't give you anything. I don't love you. There's nothing for you to possibly fix." It was a lie. John knew that the _I don't love you_ bit was a lie- and Sherlock probably did, too. But it really was the ultimate goal. Stop loving the man who bedded someone behind your back. The saddest part of the entire matter was that John had a small velvet box hiding in the drawer where he kept his old army uniform- somewhere that Sherlock would never look. The doctor turned and walked away once more, deciding that he'd simply throw the ring away, just like Sherlock had done to John.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The words were painful. More painful than he had ever heard or experienced before. So, it was it. He couldn't breath, couldn't feel anything past the burning wound inside his chest. There was nothing to fix. How foolish he had been. How terrible was the mistake he did. "...John." He slid down on the ground, helplessly, his legs giving up. He couldn't. It was too painful. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." The detective kept whispering in the middle of the street more for himself than for anything else.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Step in front of step, the doctor made his way back into the London foot-traffic. There was no point in looking behind him and at the detective. Sherlock's boyfriend was probably rushing to him from their flat. When Sherlock had come from the dead, the doctor had deduced himself that his then-flatmate had wounds on him. Sherlock had winced slightly in every movement he made. Of course, John's mind had also been filled with sadness and hurt- though it was nothing compared to what he was feeling. The then-anger had been so overwhelming that it had cleared his thoughts completely. John Watson was a scary man when he wasn't thinking. He had beat Sherlock, involuntarily ignoring the wounds. (Of course, John had apologized and they'd worked over it, but it still haunted John's mind.)

 

The point was that- even though he was thought to be an idiot and very much not clever by the detective- John had never missed little bits of information. He'd noticed the barefootedness of his ex-boyfriend. And if Max was any sort of human at all, he would rush to Sherlock's side in rescue.

 

John let out a mix of a scoff, huff, and dry, unbelieving laugh. Sherlock had pulled the human out of him. John Watson was a custom-tailored machine for him. Someone who would listen to his rants, who would be easily fooled into thinking that he was cared for. Someone who could fight and shoot a gun. Someone that he could groom and mould easily. A stupid, stupid little pet goldfish. And that was all that John was. A tool and pet. Not human- not anymore.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Max had, indeed, made his way to the detective with a pair of shoes. But what he found on the ground wasn't pretty to look at. It was more a corpse than anything. What was once a brilliant detective looked just like any divorced man, his head in his hands and regretting every mistake he had ever mad.

 

Sherlock couldn't bear the sight of Max anymore. He was the cause of the loss he was suffering, and the shoes he brought with him got thrown away, under a car's wheels.

 

Despite Max's best attempts, he didn't manage to get the curled haired man up and back at home, so, instead, he sat down next to him silently. People stared. Some of them recognized the once famous detective, but they didn't dare to say anything under the cold glare of the only man that would ever stay by him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written with Artist!Camille.
> 
> ........( • >  
> ........|||  
> ......w|_  
>  
> 
> I mean, look at that beauty, right?


	7. Chapter 7

People stared. Some of them recognized the once famous detective, but they didn't dare to say anything under the cold glare of the only man that would ever stay by him.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John ended up finding a vacant bedsit room at the same place he'd been in before Sherlock had "rescued" him. He was cold, not having retrieved either his coat nor his duffle. The walls were a dull grey and the room itself was stifling and small. John walked stiffly towards the bed and sat down on it, looking around with falsely purposeful eyes. The ex-Captain didn't shiver or betray any other sign of humanness. Human was what had gotten him out of this bedsit in the first place and into Sherlock's home. Now, it was what had driven him away. No chance in hell was John Watson going to allow the human part of back him back into his life, but it wasn’t like he could if he simply wanted to. Sherlock had taken that part away and kept it for himself. John took off his wet shirt and soaked shoes, leaving him in his drenched vest, pants, trousers and socks. He had been right. The drizzle had turned into a pouring type of rain. He walked into the bathroom, looking for towels. None. Worst day in the history of the universe and before that, even. John poked his head out the door, looking for anyone that might be making a last-trip clean of the night. At least that was one good thing. An (attractive) woman in the hotel uniform was pushing a cart through the hallways. A cart that evidently held a few towels. John exited his flat and quickly caught up with her, wincing at the pain his nerve-exposed shoulder was giving him in reaction to the chill and wetness of the environment. 

 

It was pure, simple, and evident in his current state.

 

John was fit.

  
  


Underneath his jumpers and commonwealth clothes, John Watson had a body fit for an army-man. And with the white vest clinging to him, it was only further accentuated. The woman looked him momentarily up and down as John stood with a mix of sheepishness, gratefulness, and overwhelming grief. The last was only seen by the woman as she looked into his eyes- reading the pain that was unconsciously nestled there. She smirked, “Best way to deal with sadness is a good shag, innit?” She further advanced towards the man and tilted her head up to capture her lips in his. John shamelessly responded, shifting his head and claiming dominance, tongue dancing around. This wasn't wrong. John didn't have a boyfriend. Hell- John didn't have  _ anyone _ . "Big fan of your blog, doctor." John hummed, not caring. His blog was pointless. His blog had started all this. John pulled back, "When do you get off?"

  
  


The woman grinned sultrily, “Now- if you want me to, John." 

  
  


The doctor took her hand and lead her back into his room, closing the door behind him as he reconnected his lips. He unbuttoned her uniform top hastily, before simply pulling it up and over her, disconnecting the kiss for seconds before they were back at each other's lips. The rest of their clothes followed soon after and John pushed her down on the bed, kissing down her sternum, making his way down to the space between her legs. John pulled back just as he reached, earning himself a frustrated moan from the woman. She quickly turned the frustration into a true, lust-filled moan as she saw the glint in the doctor's eyes. It was John's turn for excitement. For him to live out his own kinks, his own wants. "Say yes to me." 

  
  


"Yes." 

  
  


The doctor moved up to her chest again, lipping her right nipple and nipping at it gently, using his right hand as she was distracted- to trail down to between her legs. John used to fingers to rub against her clit harshly as he alternated his attention from one of her breasts to the other, her moans getting louder. Perfect.

  
  


Not perfect enough.

  
  


John dismissed the thought, pulling back from her body and asking for a condom. "On my cart- people have requests." The doctor wrapped a towel around himself, uncaring as he ran out the door to retrieve the item in question before jogging back to his room and shutting the door. He took the towel off before he predatorily walked closer to her, kissing and harshly biting at he skin as the doctor prepared himself. He pushed in with a groan. Straight sex. For the first time in three years. He clenched his eyes shut. It was different- he'd forgotten the feeling- but it was pleasurable all the same. John forced his eyes open as images of Sherlock filled his head. Sherlock would have never done this. He wouldn't have even let John simply take him like he allowed Max to do. 

  
  


This wasn't Sherlock. This was a woman.

  
  


John pulled out slowly and gracefully before thrusting in again, repeating his actions while firmly gripping his hands on her hips, drawing out pleasured moans and a repeat of more,  _ please, John. I need you. _ They were all words that Sherlock had said to him today- only in a completely different context. Sherlock wouldn't have ever begged John, not like this. No- not Sherlock, this was not Sherlock. John relentlessly thrust his hips, allowing for pre-made fantasies to be fulfilled.  _ Bruises, kisses, biting, tongue. _ It was perfect. Nearly. "John! Please, I'm so close, yes- don't stop, please." John forced himself to still. He would torture her like he'd tortured him.

"Not yet, love. You can come after I do. I promise to eat you out if you can stand it. If not- well, I'm sure you'll leave unsatisfied one way or another." The woman panted, gritting her teeth before nodding. "Words, love. I need your words."

  
  


"Yes, John. I won't until you do." 

  
  


"That's Captain to you, sweetheart." The woman's eyes comically opened, pupils dilating even further as she recognized the words. All the nice women liked a good soldier. John smiled, unexpectedly starting his thrusts again, his grip on her firmer than ever to keep her in place. He could feel familiar pleasure build up, his pace picking up as he scrunched his eyes shut.

  
  


This time, John wasn't able to open them. In his mind's eye- he watched as Sherlock’s lithe body contracted, each and every muscle overruled it’s commands by the pure pleasure through him, the detective's mouth opening in a drawn-out moan of  _ Captain _ . The doctor found himself lost in pleasure. He allowed himself a few shallow thrusts before pulling out, taking off the condom, tying it, and throwing it into the trash bin. He kissed her lips again before moving down, using his lips where she needed it most. It wasn't long before she came apart, silent compared to- No. John wouldn't. He moved his lips through her orgasm before pulling back and sitting on his knees, panting quietly. "You should go." The woman looked up at him playfully, "What? No phone number- no, ‘ _ i'll call you later’ _ ?" John looked down at her with unreadable eyes. "No. But thank you." She grinned, taking it in good nature. “ _ Somebody  _ loves you. Sherlock Holmes is a  _ very  _ lucky man to have you wrapped around him like you are, Johnny.”

  
  


John's body went on full lockdown, feeling exhausted and guarded all the same. "You really should go." The smile from her face barely fell as she shrugged and got up, pulling on her clothes and fixing her hair. "I'll get those towels for you." The doctor nodded, picking up the singular towel he'd dropped, wrapping it around his waist before taking the other two ones she was giving him, looking blank as she gave him a final grin and closed the door. 

  
  


The doctor nodded to himself, taking the soft cloths, putting them by the sink of the restroom, then walking back into the living room, hanging up his drenched clothes to dry over the door of the closet. He walked back into the bathroom, turning on the warm shower, allowing the water to cascade down his hair and body, his head blank and running like a broken machine all the same. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock found himself in Max's arms in the same place that John and Sherlock had shared whispers and smiles, tears and life. This mattress had seen many sleepless nights, laughs from the dawn, blissful happiness rushing through their veins. It remembered the first time John's hands found their ways down Sherlock's body, remembered when the both of them collapsed, exhausted in the bed and couldn't help but chuckling because of a silly detail. It remembered of the tears from the detective's eyes, it remembered of the times John patched his injuries up. It remembered of the time Sherlock's back was torn apart and bled on the sheets, a night he came back from death and had felt the stitches being torn from being thrown on the ground by the man he loved. It was both pain and smile, and right now, it was nothing. Sherlock's heart was aching, clenching around nothing. Max was moaning, his slow thrusts meant to build up some kind of pleasure inside the detective's body. It did, but his transport's high wasn't reaching his mind, his thoughts drifting away. He knew being hurt wasn't enough for him to light his guilt up, so, he asked to be denied from pleasure. He begged for it, blushed from the shame and regretted not begging John. But the doctor wasn't that kind of man. He was a good person, he was a vanilla, sweet and gentle one. Not once he had purposely done anything painful to the detective, not once he had teased him for long. It had been slow and boring. 

That's why there was Max in their bed right now. 

 

And that was why Sherlock felt more lonely than he ever felt before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written alongside Camille-- who does not tell me if she knows how to use chopsticks the proper way.


	8. Chapter 8

vanilla, sweet and gentle one. Not once he had purposely done anything painful to the detective, not once he had teased him for long. It had been slow and boring.   
That's why there was Max in their bed right now. 

And that was why Sherlock felt more lonely than he ever felt before.

-x-x-x-x

John walked out of the shower, toweling himself off. The doctor mindlessly walked into his room, wrapping a clean, dry towel around his lower half. He stood in front of the desk, looking down at it. The last time John had been here, he'd kept his gun in the right drawer, underneath his laptop. He mechanically opened the drawer, looking for the item he knew wouldn't be there. It was empty as expected, no gun, no weapons, nothing. John had come here with no plan and nothing to carry him over to the next day. Hell, John was even running low on money- wondering if he could pay for the suit itself. Still, it was the very, very last thing that was on his mind. John needed his gun. He needed clothes, something, anything. 

He needed Sherlock. 

John sat on the bed, nodding to himself before crawling under the duvet and looking up, glad that he'd turned off the light before he’d gotten in the shower. John looked up at the clear, empty, boring ceiling, afraid to go to sleep, wanting to stay clear of the nightmares. Tonight, memories of the war wouldn't haunt him. 

Sherlock would.

x-x-x-x

Sherlock was trembling from desire. Finally, finally, Max had managed to reach him. To frustrate his body enough for his mind to be blurry in arousal. For the time being, he didn't think about John. He thought about his lover's hands, slowly teasing his transport, touching and kissing and always avoiding the places he needed the most. Sherlock's thighs were shaking, but he didn't beg, his jaw locked as his eyelids fluttered rapidly, unable to hold still. His hands clenched the sheets under him, and he muted his moans by biting down his lip. Max laughed jokingly, and Sherlock felt something breaking inside him. His body tensed up without anymore contact, curling up around nothing, and a ruined, disappointing orgasm was ripped through him. "Aaah-Ah." He breathed out heavily.   
Max taped his thigh. "Good. That's good. That's what you deserve, da’ling."

-x-x-x-x

The doctor forced his eyes open as long as he could- but the day had been taxing. It was just two days ago that him and Sherlock had been screaming at each other about whether Bond movies were any good or not. Now, they were both broken up and John had walked in on the man having sex- cheating on him twice. Every time he hesitated with closing his eyes for a blink, the images ran over and over in his head, a personalized form of torture. Even the sex hadn't given him peace of mind- which it usually did, especially when it was rough like it had been. The doctor sat up, leaning on the wall with his left shoulder. He perked up as he heard the door being knocked. Why in the world did people decide to keep bothering a dead man? John had stated the message to the woman very clearly and John truly didn't have anyone that could come here except for Sherlock. But John didn't have Sherlock. He stood up, wrapping the duvet around himself, forcing memories back as he walked to the door and opened it.

 

Mycroft Holmes. John closed the door without a word, deciding that moist pants and trousers were better than no pants and trousers. He pulled on the vest as well, not wanting the British Government to see his mangled shoulder. John didn't have the energy for another piteous look. He opened the door agin, but didn't allow the man invitation to enter in. "Mycroft." The other man smiled dryly and pushed his way in anyway, "Hello, John." He pulled out a box from his pocket, handing it to John. "The sim card's been miraculously saved, Doctor. I'd recommend not to throw it in a river again- not sure it will stand." John took it, staring down with hate at it before chucking it onto the bed.

 

He'd known. 

 

"Max. You knew. You didn't tell me." John angrily walked up to the man, gripping his collar and pinning him to the wall, "Why didn't you tell me, Mycroft? Just another bothersome thing for you to avoid because we're all silly little goldfish? You bastard!”

-x-x-x-x

"Doctor Watson." Mycroft said quietly. It wouldn't be much difficult to push John away if he tried to hurt him. He was perhaps a soldier, but Mycroft was a Holmes. And not sounding calm would only make him feel angrier anyway. "Of course, I knew. I just didn't see the point to tell you. It's my brother's privacy, after all." He said it with a smirk. Privacy was an abstract concept for anyone who knew either Mycroft or Sherlock. "Should I add that your relationship with him made my brother happy?" It wasn't about this. Obviously, it wasn't. Sherlock thought Max had just been a random lover, but Mycroft knew better than that. He had read him, found his other identities. And that, he hadn't told his brother about. "You truly shouldn't be angry like this. It's just sex.”

-x-x-x-x

John pulled back, accepting that physical force never worked on a Holmes. Hell- it most likely wouldn't even ruffle their perfect, posh hair. He backed up, feeling disgusting in his partially dry clothes, and sat down on the bed with resignation, looking up at the man fiercely. "You're wrong." John's voice stayed the same volume, but it lost its fierceness. "You're wrong, Mycroft. He loves Max." His eyes didn't waver from the man's, knowing that it would be taken as a sign of vulnerability- something that John never wanted to show to a Holmes again. Or to anyone else. "For god knows how long," The doctor took in a deep breath, "Maybe he still loves me- but we've lost something and Sherlock found it in someone else." Talking to Mycroft Holmes about feelings surpassed a bit not good. It was deep into No hellish way will this ever happen again. "Are you just here to piss me off and return my mobile or was it something else?" A dark look crossed the man's (unnaturally) snobby face. Perhaps a little set up with Greg and him would fix that. 

But then again, Mycroft was a Holmes. The Holmes men were a force that John wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, much less his best mate.

John got up before Mycroft could say anything, pouring his last bit of energy into the movement. He didn't have the energy to talk. To deal with this. To even walk- or simply keep breathing. "Look, if you stop by again, you'll be very thankful that I don't have my gun with me." He forced the man out of the suit, locking it before propping a chair under the door knob. God knew that Mycroft could pick a simply hotel room lock. He was the clever one.

He picked up his phone, realizing that there were notifications on it. He replied.

The one thing I ever did stupidly was allow myself to be introduced to you, Holmes. JW 

The biscuits are in the rubbish bin if you need them. JW 

Delete my number. And consider yours already deleted. JW 

-x-x-x-x

Mycroft rubbed his expensive suit, making sure John hadn't ruined it. "You really shouldn't threaten me, Doctor Watson. It would be unwise." The eldest Holmes said, getting closer to the door. "I clearly see you aren't in the mood to listen to what I have to say, and I can't afford to let his kind of information down onto a deaf ear. I’ll be in touch." He tilted his head. "Don't judge my brother too harshly. I know what you did with that woman, and I can assure your dirty little secrets make it nearly impossible for you to judge my brother." Then he left.

Reading the messages, Sherlock curled up on himself. Max was sleeping on the sofa, letting the detective enjoy the bed on his own. He had insisted to stay despite Sherlock's attempts to push him away. 

You can't call me Holmes after everything we went through. SH

I know I hurt you, but there's are people who’ve managed to survive to this. SH

-x-x-x-x

Mycroft knew. And so did Sherlock. It had been the first time that John had broken down in front of his addict, tears running over the backside of his fingers and his mouth being clamped shut to prevent sobs. They'd just been texts. But it had been cheating, anyway. John sat back heavily on his bed. He hadn't full out fucked her. He hadn't allowed her to touch him. And he sure as hell didn't shag her as soon as Mary had left the flat- which was exactly what Sherlock had done to John. John Watson had made a mistake in the past, his loyal streak being broken over by silly little Eurus. John sighed, falling back on the bed, not having any energy left to sit up.

 

In the end, it had turned out to be another Holmes. John considered naming a curse after them. The Holmes' Curse. Follows anywhere and makes your life hell.

You're not Sherlock, I don't know what else to call you by. JW 

Those people probably cared about each other. JW 

Not like you. JW

-x-x-x-x

Sherlock couldn't believe what he was reading. Didn't John believe he mattered to the detective? Somehow, through the sadness, it was the anger that rose up.

If I didn't care about you I wouldn't have faked my death to save your life. I wouldn't have sold my brother to Magnussen if I didn't care about your happiness. I have scars because of you. I have traumas because of you. SH

 

So, yes. I care. SH 

-x-x-x-x

There’s a difference between care and cared. JW 

John felt his own anger rise up, threatening to consume him once more. If Sherlock had faked his death and sold his brother for him, then why couldn't he had just stayed his. Even if Mycroft had been right- even if it had been just for sex- it didn’t matter. Because Sherlock had messed up. And he had hurt John in the process.

Perhaps this was just one of Sherlock's bit not good moments, his inhumanness confusing him- forgetting that he could’ve simply talked to John. That's what it seemed to simplify down to- if it had only been about the sex. The doctor set his phone down and rubbed his hands across his face. Even if Sherlock's hadn't talked to him about it, then at least John should've. The doctor shouldn't have compromised his sensual wants without even asking his then-boyfriend. They should've talked because the pure and simple fact was that Sherlock liked to take it rough- and John liked to give it rough. 

A high pitched, disbelieving laugh ran through the doctor before filing into unbelievable fury. He gripped the phone and flung it across the room as harshly as it could, the impact leaving a decent dent in the wall. John sat with his legs over the sides of his bed, elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands while he closed his eyes.

God, this was so stupid.

 

But what if it wasn't. 

What if it wasn't one of Sherlock's bit not goods. The detective knew everything and was gradually increasing his knowledge on how to be human. He would've known exactly what this would do- that John was more clever than he was thought to be. That he would find out eventually.

And then what? What had Sherlock planned to do then? Or before? If John had never found out, would it have still continued on? For how long? Even after John looked up through dark blue eyes, kneeled on his good knee with a velvet box in his hand? 

The doctor held his breath, a sudden pain in his chest making it impossible to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where my lovely friend Camille has gotten Mycroft to get on all of our nerves. And Sherlock, too. They're both cocks. And she's a fantastic writer.


	9. Chapter 9

If John had never found out, would it have still continued on? For how long? Even after John looked up through dark blue eyes, kneeled on his good knee with a velvet box in his hand? 

 

The doctor held his breath, a sudden pain in his chest making it impossible to breathe.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock hadn't noticed anything "kinky" about John. People said that it was always the quiet ones, but the doctor wasn't even  _ quiet _ . He liked pulling rank, but that was it. The detective never hoped he could lure his lover into using his background as a play, losing even more hope as he considered the fact that John had come back from war hurt and traumatized. But there was nothing Sherlock wouldn't have been willing to offer to hear John ordering to be called Captain and to do unholy things to the curly haired man. But no. It was impossible, and Sherlock couldn't ask it from the doctor. It was... Too much. 

  
  


"I denied my sexual wants for you, John. SH"

  
  


He quickly added, knowing John would take his words the wrong way:

  
  


I truly tried to get used to gentle words and soft touches. I truly loved it, John. But I craved for more. I didn't plan to hurt you in anyway, I just wanted to feel right. To be allowed to fulfill all my needs equally. SH

 

He sighed sadly.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John turned the corner of his lip up, horribly and twistedly amused at what was he read.

 

We're both idiots. JW 

 

The doctor took a pause, confirming to himself that he wanted the detective to know.

 

I should've told you. We should've talked. JW 

 

Sherlock, I wanted the same. For years, I  _ craved _ it, I made up my fantasies- but you were new- to sex, to it all. I didn't want to push you. JW 

 

And after that, you just seemed to like the way we were going. I didn't think you'd want to try anything else. Ever. JW 

 

I just forced my wants down. JW 

  
  


John huffed out a dry laugh, feeling his eyes brim up with  _ tears _ at how stupid they had been. A tear ran over his cheek. This was the most ridiculous thing that John Watson had ever done- and to be fair, he'd invaded Afghanistan.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock couldn't believe what he was reading, and it wasn't often that the detective was surprised. In the next room, he could hear Max sleeping and shifting, uncomfortable on the sofa.

 

It was like if the feelings he had for this man had suddenly faded away. He didn't love Max, but he needed him to get this particular high he had been looking for.

 

It was no longer the truth. He could have John, now. After a few minutes, he typed an answer. 

 

Please tell me you'd be able to reconsider your decision. It would be too stupid if we left each other like this. SH

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John ran a finger over the dent on the phone he'd cause by throwing it at the godforsaken wall as he watched the small texting icon appear. John Watson was rarely ever nervous. Worried? Yes. But nervous- almost never. He forced himself to breathe as he looked up at the top of his screen and at Sherlock's profile picture.

 

John had taken it on his phone- Sherlock's first true laugh after Mary had died. The first time that John had kissed him. The first time John had bedded him. It had been the start of it all. The doctor felt a fresh pain run through him as a singular thought ran through him. 

 

_ You'll never trust him like you used to, John Watson.  _

 

And it was true. John would most likely never trust Sherlock, there would  _ always _ be a shadow of doubt. When they'd be alone in their bedroom, John harshly thrusting like Sherlock would want, the detective, moaning out S _ irs _ and C _ aptains _ \- there would a part of him that would always think about Sherlock thinking about John, a brief flash of  _ “Oh yes, Max,” _ running through John's mind in Sherlock's voice. The doctor leant back on the wall, unable to hold himself up with what felt like the weight of the world pressing against him. Maybe- it could be possible, but it would take years. Years that Sherlock would  _ never _ have the patience to deal with.

 

You couldn't want this, Sherlock. JW

 

"I-" John deleted the text before typing it again, "I can't trust you." Sherlock would find a way to be offended to that. God knew he'd done enough to prove himself, but then again, he'd thrown it down the drain himself. Nonetheless, John deleted the text, typing a different message instead.

 

You'd get bored. JW

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock knew he had destroyed something by being in Max's arms, by sharing memories with an another man. He knew he had tainted the reality pure of his love for John, of their shared laughs, embraces. But he didn't love Max, and he had been through so much with his doctor. He knew he could never love someone like he loved John. And he could  _ never _ find it in himself to become  _ bored _ of John. Of their sexual life? Maybe. Of the man? No. Never.

 

“Wrong. SH,” he simply typed.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John read the text. Then reread it. And then read it again and again so that it was practically being chanted in his head.  _ Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. You're wrong John. I'd never get bored of you. I love you, John. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. _ The words ran themselves through his mind, trying to convince him that the word's meaning was true. That Sherlock would never hurt him again. 

 

He leaned back, allowing gravity to pull him down as his torso landed squarely on the bed, legs hanging over the sides as a tortured scream was torn out of him. He filled with  _ misery, treachery, confusion, and pain. _ John screamed until his throat felt raw, and then more after that, releasing all the emotion he'd felt in the past two days as best as he could. He screamed through the initial shock, the rage, the disbelief, the heart-wrenching feelings, and through the stupidity, finally ending with a voiceless  _ ahhhh _ as his throat gave out under the pressure of confusion and fear that John felt. 

 

He relaxed onto the bed, phone held loosely in his left hand, panting he tried to breathe again. He closed his eyes, images flashing through them before he felt a phantom pain travel from his lower torso all the way up his chest, filtering into his heart.

 

John brought the phone up, parallel to his face, refusing to read the message Sherlock had sent. There was no need to, it was on loop in his head.  _ Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. _

  
  


Delete my number. JW

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock didn't bother replying to John. He didn't delete the number either, feeling something terribly heavy. He was drowning. There was no other way he could possibly explain this sensation of  _ missing _ oxygen. He was choking on his breaths, and if he did nothing, he would either  _ die _ or become forever lost in a sea of sad thoughts. He threw his phone away and went to the living room, to curl up against Max. The man didn't protest,  instead he caressed Sherlock's hair patiently, for a long time- until the detective understood he had no one but Max left.

 

………

 

Mycroft knocked to John's door, checking his watch.  He hoped the doctor had handled the break up, he hadn't time to waste with his feelings. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John sighed, opening the door, ready to welcome the room service lady in for another quick shag in an attempt to get his mind off of  _ “things.” _ He moved mechanically, throwing open the door. 

 

Mycroft.  _ Brilliant _ .

  
  


There was only one man that he hated worse than he hated Sherlock at the moment- and that was Mycroft Holmes. 

  
  


Nonetheless, John invited the man in, finally growing something in semblance of patience. "Alright, fine. Come on in," The doctor retreated to his bad, ignoring the man's slight glance at the dented wall and hurt phone. "What do you want, Mycroft?”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Mycroft entered the room without hesitation, almost as if he owned the place. Which technically he did, considering he owned the whole country. "Doctor Watson. Look like you were waiting someone else. Too bad." He winced, noticing the wall. "Mhm. And a short night too, he would seem. Fine. Still down, we have to speak about my brother."

  
Mycroft breathed in. "You seem to have decided to break up with Sherlock,” the man held up a hand, cutting off John’s  _ fuck off, Mycroft.  _ “My brother’s safety is my number one concern and so I must to warn you about a few points. Only one, actually. Max.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎶 WrittEn WiTh CaaaammmIIIllLLLEE! 🎶


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft breathed in. "You seem to have decided to break up with Sherlock,” the man held up a hand, cutting off John’s  _ fuck off, Mycroft.  _ “My brother’s safety is my number one concern and so I must warn you about a few points. Only one, actually. Max.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked at the man warily, the want to deal about Sherlock being nonexistent on things he wanted to do. He sniffled a bit, realizing that there were still tear marks on his face from when had cried earlier during the scream, his eyes red. "What ab-" John cleared his throat, his voice coming out in a rasp. "What about him?" Not much better- he still sounded like a serial smoker.

 

John was much too tired to say no to anyone about anything. Too tired to deal with things- too tired to even drive Mycroft out. "What could possibly be so important about him that  _ I _ have to know? Mycroft. He's perfect for your brother. You've got to give him the  _ Don't hurt my brother or else _ speech, too. Or possibly bribe him to share information about your brother's 'well beings.'" Great, John was sprouting out his emotion to Mycroft again. Talking to Mycroft about emotions had been moved from the _ never again _ to  _ it happened twice, but never again after that _ . John exhaled, feeling lost. He was losing himself, plain and simple. "Maybe this one'll even listen to your warning about staying away from Sherlock Holmes."

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Mycroft touched the mark in the wall with the tip of his index finger, shaking his hand in disapproval. "I can assure you that this one won't stay away from my little brother." He glanced to the doctor, then started to walk into the room. "And Max, or whatever name he’s chosen, isn't the kind of person to be…  _ impressed _ by my threats either." After a pause, he explained. "Because no matter how painful I could make his death- if he failed to do his job properly, the person who paid him to get close Sherlock would do worse… I know there's a name in your head. Well, I must believe you're not totally brainless, Doctor, if my brother liked you. What's this name? You're probably already thinking it's silly and impossible.” Mycroft straightened his back, his words almost forced, now. “Say it anyways.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

As Mycroft had said- it was impossible. The spider was dead, Sherlock had taken apart his web years ago. And  _ yet _ , John couldn't help but force the thought out of his lips.  _ "Moriarty." _ The doctor's already damaged voice went along with the small whisper. It was more or less of a prayer- a  _ please, god- not him _ . John looked at Mycroft evenly. "Is he in danger?" Stupid question. Anyone that was touched by Moriarty- even with a  _ toothpick _ \- was in danger. John exhaled noisily, though a small part of him was glad that Sherlock would feel the same pain of betrayal that John had. The doctor cleared his head. "I need my gun.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Mycroft didn't need to nod, to confirm John's fear, because once the name filled the room, a loud silence seemed to settle between them. The British Government looked away. When he had figured it out, he hadn't told Sherlock. He hoped to get information on Moriarty, and arresting Max would only make him mute. However, there was a limit to the damage and danger the man could cause his little brother when John was around.

 

Because without John, Sherlock was lost. And that's exactly what Moriarty's minion had been looking for. One minute of weakness to pull the detective into his arms and keep him. And then…

 

Mycroft winced. 

 

"You must to understand that you were the piece stopping Max from get closer to Sherlock. You were a limit, a shield in front of him. With you in the flat, Max couldn't sleep by my brother. With you in the flat, Max couldn't spend hours straight with Sherlock. With you in the flat... Max couldn't manipulate my brother and make him believe he's  _ ‘the one.’ _ ” Breathing in, he said. "As much as I don't understand why Sherlock insists on keeping a goldfish around, I much prefer knowing he is in a relationship with a doctor than some sort of spy who killed more people in one year than you happened to save in one lifetime.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked up, glaring still. "You knew.  _ Again, _ Mycroft? First Serbia- you let him be tortured, and now  _ this _ ?" The words were very well kept in their hissing tone. That's the voice  _ reptiles _ like Mycroft Holmes deserved. John clenched his fists together to control himself, his pain being overruled by the fury Mycroft had given him. He took a deep breath in attempt to calm himself, his next words coming out with force, "So you're telling me, that I was protecting your  _ bastard _ brother all this time from  _ Moriarty? _ He's  _ dead _ ." It was true enough that the spider didn't need to be alive for his web to be used- but the web itself had been dismantled as well. Captain John Watson stood up, feet shoulder length apart and hands clasped evenly behind him. "What do I need to do?" he asked, enunciating every word.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Mycroft looked to John and shook his head with disappointment. He truly couldn’t understand how a man so well read as John Watson could be such an idiot. The Government sighed. "You didn't see his corpse. Nobody did. The only actual clue we have is my brother's words. He saw the criminal killing himself."

 

He started to pace into the room. "I'm not asking you to believe Moriarty is alive, nor to figure out how he could have done this. But I can assure you that Sherlock is currently threatened by this... Max." He frowned. "Do what you do the best. Be my brother's partner. As long as you are with him, Max won't be able to control him, but I could get the information I need.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

"Get out." John looked up at the man, hate evident in his eyes. "Get out, Mycroft-- or god help me, i'll make you. I have given  _ enough _ ." The doctor took in a harsh breath, "My life, my dignity, my pride. Hell- I lost the woman I loved and my  _ daughter _ . Then I lost my boyfriend. You will  _ not _ ask me anything more." John needed time. To think. To heal himself. He looked down at the grimy carpet, thinking to himself- knowing that Mycroft knew John well enough to know that the doctor would understand the situation and act accordingly, even if he was annoyed. John snapped his head up. 

 

"One day. Give me one day before I have to go back to him." 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Mycroft stared to John sternly and shook his head. "No. One day. Do you know what  _ one day _ means, Doctor? One day is enough for my brother to get himself  _ addicted _ to Max. I know his kind of person, they become what you need, what you absolutely cannot live without. They fit themselves into a tailored suit, made to widen one's weakness. One day is enough for Sherlock to become Moriarty's partner in crime. You have five hours.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Bastard. John chuckled to himself. Not bastard--  _ Queen _ . The doctor stood once the man had left, running his hands over his face, trying to convince himself that his life hadn't become perilous within a span of two days. He walked into the bathroom, splashing water on his face and rubbing it dry with a towel. Towel. John smirked to himself a bit, remembering the night, before quickly melting it off his face, remembering who'd he thought of when he'd hit his high and closed his eyes. God, this was so  _ fucked _ . John looked at the clock, deciding that he'd require a brief walk to sort himself out. He dressed himself as best as he could, running his fingers through his hair before going downstairs to check out of the hotel room.

 

"Your room's already been paid for, sir." Mycroft, obviously. Bloody well, too. John Watson fucking deserved it. He nodded at the lady, sticking his hand in his pocket to look for his wallet anyways- planning for a cuppa to go. He began walking towards the door as he pulled it out, a piece of paper falling down as he did so. A phone number. John looked down at it with amusement before feeling dread settle in. John was tied down again. He had five hours. 

 

But at least he had those.

  
  


_ Call me, Captain. XOXO _

  
  


And John did.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The breakfast had been prepared by Max. Sherlock didn't see past his sadness and despair to have lost John, but the man had prepared his favorite biscuits with his favorite tea. He knew details about Sherlock that only a domestic relationship brought- something that he’d never shared with the man. The details would be used to make him feel comfortable. Safe. Once safe and at ease, it would only be a matter of time for the detective to decide to give himself up totally to Max. And therefore, he'd become Moriarty's.

 

And that was why the bath prepared by the young man wasn't simply just a bath. It was one step closer the key of Sherlock's heart. The loving kiss to his temple was a few minutes obtained over John. Every move mattered. And Sherlock was slowly being trapped. Maybe that if the detective hadn't been so sad and guilty, he would have felt it, noticed it. But he didn’t.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John sat up on the bed, the lady asleep beside him. Four hours and thirty minutes. Gone. At least it had been a good waste of time. The doctor sat up and got back dressed before writing a note. 

  
  


_ Please don't contact me- I’m about to get married. _

  
  


Heartless? Yes. Cruel? No. The doctor had given her a night to remember and that was enough a payment for the time she'd taken off of John's mind. The doctor sighed, closing the door gently behind him and walking towards an exit before pulling out his phone. Not yet. The doctor made his way to a restaurant. Simply trusting muscle memory and pushing it open without reading the name. 

 

"Hello, John! No Sherlock, I see?" The thick Italian accent greeted the shorter man as he blinked in surprise. _ Angelo's? This  _ was where John had brought himself. The doctor sighed as he was lead to their "usual" seat and was handed a menu. "You boyfriend out on a case, doctor?" John looked down at the menu diligently as if he hadn't heard the words. If only it had been that simple. John smiled up at the man as best as he could before simply ordering some wine and a sandwich. The owner's smile fell a bit, "Do not worry Dr Watson- domestics happen to people, even to people such as Sherlock and you." The man whisked himself away, a smile painted back on his ever-joyous face before returning back with John's orders. The doctor poured himself a full glass of wine not even bothering to touch the sandwich as he looked out the window, remembering the first night. 

 

He tilted the glass up, wishing the alcohol would work better on the soldier. It didn't. He pulled his phone out. Better to do it here than on the streets. 

 

Yes. JW 

 

I'll come back if he's gone. JW 

 

He watched the phone, pain rushing through him once more. Lies made the world go around though, didn't they?

 

-x-x-x-x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @~)~~~~
> 
> The internet tells me this is a rose. I... don't see it, but anyways.
> 
> Rose for lovely Camille and her talent to put up with my inconsistent responses and missed deadlines.
> 
>  
> 
> Do you guys ever forget that armadillos exist?


	11. Chapter 11

He watched the phone, pain rushing through him once more. Lies made the world go around though, didn't they?

 

-x-x-x-x

 

When Sherlock's phone rang with the new message, the detective was in the bathtub. He wasn't in the mood to relax, but Max had insisted and he had caressed his shoulders skillfully. So, Sherlock had nodded and sat down naked in the warm water. He had sighed, noticing the candles around and the flowers in the water, but he felt loved. Absently, he played with the sponge. "Phone!" He called out.

  
  


Max had just finished deleting John's messages. "It's nothing, just ads for a new store, da'ling!" He replied.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

This was odd. It had been nearly 20 minutes since John had sent the text. Under normal circumstance, that would indicate that the man was in danger and that it was a  _ vatican cameos _ moment. But this wasn't a normal circumstance. John ignored the way his heart panged as he made his way over to baker street and unlocked the door. Mrs Hudson poked her head out, this time sadly looking at him, ready to like like she was going to either chide him or apologize to him. The doctor nodded, raising his finger up to his lips, "Not now. Vatican Cameos." Her eyes widened before she mouthed  _ save him, John.  _ She then moved closer, putting herself into whispering range, "I don't care if you have to go to  _ hell _ to do it." 

 

The doctor backed away, tripping over his feet slightly. She thought this was  _ his _ fault? The doctor nodded, knowing full well that that wasn't the main problem in hand. He walked up the stairs and quietly opened the door- thanking his past self for fixing the creak three days ago. (He had straightened up, a line of grease over his cheekbones while Sherlock had looked at him, smiling slightly before waving his face away of emotions and concentrating on his phone. Had Sherlock been texting Max, then?) It didn't matter. the doctor cleared his head, following into Captain Watson mode and sneaking up the stairs to his bedroom, retrieving the gun before walking downstairs slowly- carefully avoiding the third step (it creaked.) He checked over his gun before looking around slightly, making up his mind that the pair were in the bathroom. 

 

If John Watson walked in on shower sex, there would most definitely be a body on the ground- no matter if it was Max's, Sherlock's, or John's own. 

 

The doctor loaded his gun, clicking off the safety and angling his back to the wall by the door, quietly reaching up to check if the knob was unlocked. It moved. John twisted it harshly, opening the door and quickly meeting his hand with his gun and pointing it at Max. 

"Don't move." The soldier pointed the firearm steadily at the man's head as he walked closer towards him, slowly before advancing faster, twisting the man's arm behind his hand before he could react. He leant forward and whispered into the man's ear. "Go tell your boss, you vile  _ rat _ , that if he wants to play chess- then I'll play as Sherlock's chess-piece, even if the bloody idiot gets me killed  _ again and again _ ." He kept the gun trained on Max's head and his hand twisted behind his back. Right now- he couldn't do anything. He wouldn't dare blow his cover. John used it to his advantage and kept the man's arm twisted harshly behind his back before walking him out of the flat, down the stairs, and onto the street.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

When John entered the bathroom, he was half naked, only wearing a grey jeans. He was gently massaging Sherlock's curls, washing them and whispered sweet nothing. The detective had managed to relax a bit, but when he heard the doctor, he startled, eye widening in surprise. "John, I... Don't, stop!" He protested as his lover was pulled out of the room. Colors left Max's face, all Sherlock could do was deduce that John had said something unpleasant, but that was all he could make out.

 

As quickly as he could without tripping and collapsing, Sherlock grabbed his dressing down and left the bathtub, dripping water over the whole flat, and following John. "No, stop. Don't hurt him! He did nothing wrong. It's me, it's my fault! John!”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John ignored Sherlock's words, slamming the door shut once he'd successfully gotten them safe. He felt his adrenaline spike up as he heard footsteps rushing down, body locking back into Captain Watson before noticing the damn curls and soaked dressing robe. The doctor clicked the safety back on the gun, pulling his finger away from the trigger, panting with the sudden adrenaline crash. Breathless, he whispered, "Shut up," looking down at the ground in between his slightly bent knees from where he was leaning on the door. "Shut up- you  _ idiot _ . Don't talk to me, just,  _ hang on _ . Just shut up." 

The doctor slid down the door, feeling dizzy at how he'd let Sherlock in danger again- how close Max had been to simply twisting the detective's neck in an odd way, cracking the man's neck and killing. Or worse-  _ brainwashing _ him. He faced the ceiling from where he was sat on the carpet, eyes closed. 

 

The first adrenaline rush from danger after the break-up. And it was hell. There were no breathless laughs. Just John finding himself lost- torn between needing to keep the love of his life safe and simply not caring. He opened his eyes, looking straight ahead, afraid to look at the detective-- knowing that he'd only be met with confusion and accusation. "Don't  _ move _ .”

 

He got up, knocking on Mrs Hudson's door. "I think it's best if you stay at your sister's for a while, Mrs Hudson, something's come up. London won't fall if you decide to keep yourself safe- Captain's orders." John reused the words, not caring anymore. She looked between the two, worry creasing her forehead before looking up at John again in a threat.  _ Don't you dare hurt him, John. Don't. you. dare.  _ The doctor stared straight back, his eyes hard and unflinching. She looked at Sherlock, giving him a once-over before retreating back to her flat to pack up.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock should have felt angry. A part of him was ready to throw John outside the flat, screaming that he had no rights to do this to his boyfriend, to hurt the only man who still loved him. But he still loved John, and he couldn't tell him the cruel things that were running through his head. He sat down in the sofa, sighing. He felt so utterly lost and confused, and after a long while, after he saw Mrs.Hudson's worried gaze, he finally asked : "Why. Why did you do that?” He slid his hand in his soaked hair. "Why did you... Just why?”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John quirked his lip up dry to himself. "Maybe if you had spent less time worrying on how to hide that you were shagging him behind my back, you'd have used that genius mind of yours to figure out he was a  _ spy _ ." The doctor hissed out the words with no sense of sympathy. Sherlock didn't deserve it. He had been an idiot and it had only led to his downfall. John tucked his gun into his waistband, promising himself that he wouldn't part from it. By now, the two of them had walked back up to 221B, leaving Mrs Hudson to get ready for her travels. Sherlock was currently soaked (and would get a cold if he stayed so.  _ He's not your responsibility, Watson. You only have to keep him alive, not worry about him. _ ) John cleared his throat and leant against the closed door, having already checked it was locked.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock frowned. It sounded stupid. Max? A spy? “So what if he is one? That's not your concern!" He snapped back. "You don't love me, but he does, so leave us alone!" He raised the curtains up, trying to see Max in the streets, vainly. "He is  _ nice _ to me. He cares about me.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked at the man evenly before moving away from the door. He unlocked it before walking out and slamming it behind him, seeing red as he felt the vibrations of it in the ground. He forced himself to breathe, to not punch the wall. To not do anything and simply live through the next few seconds without jumping over the side of the staircase railings.

 

If John was going to do this, then he would need to control himself. His temper. John wasn't  _ anyone _ to Sherlock anymore. The doctor wasn't going to allow the man's words to reach him, and was already putting up a brick wall around himself. He straightened his back, clasped and unclasped his hands, before he nodded to himself in confirmation. He could do this. It would be hell, but he had to do this. He opened the door again before assuming the same position he had before, ignoring Sherlock before taking out his phone and opening Mycroft's contact.

 

I'm with him. What now? JW

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock felt his heart aching when he saw John leaving, and he was going to ask him to come back, when the doctor entered the room on his own. So, Sherlock rolled his eyes, muttered an _ "I'm going to get dressed." _ And then, he went straight to his bedroom. John had already broken up with him. If he had wanted to love Sherlock again, the detective would have accepted this current behaviour. But this... this, messing with his life when Sherlock had been trying to fix it- it was  _ unfair _ .

 

…..

 

Mycroft was at his office when he got the text. He sighed and typed a quick and short answer

 

Stay. M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annndd another chapter!
> 
> Written with Camilllllee. We're almost done with the actual rp, I just need to dig through email and put them together. And then we'll be done with the story.
> 
> Wow, that's insane to think about. We're almost done, guys.


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft was at his office when he got the text. He sighed and typed a quick and short answer

 

Stay. M

 

…….

 

After a few minutes, Sherlock came back, dressed and almost dry. He threw himself on the sofa. "You had sex with a woman in the past twenty hours." He said coldly like if he didn't feel pain from deducing the fact.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John's eyebrows shot up along with a fraudulently playful shrug, "And guess who had sex every time I left the bloody flat? Just to make up the detail, _ you know-- for me walking in and all _ , she called me Captain. Very hot." John allowed the sarcastic playfulness to fall off his face and into a scowl, staring the detective down. He felt his phone vibrate. 

 

Piss off. JW 

 

He looked up around the room again, pointing to his old armchair, "Am I allowed to that or has it been claimed by your boyfriend already?" In truth, John could feel his leg start to weaken, he'd already started putting more of his weight on his good leg. If this kept up, he would have to simply slide to the floor. He looked at his phone again. 

 

Piss off, but fine. As long as he'll be safe if I do. JW 

  
  


The doctor looked around, looking for small differences in the flat. Or big ones. His tea mug. John walked towards it- he had forgotten about it in the morning when he'd gone to work. It truly had been a terrible day that day. He had forgotten his tea, then rain, and then idiot patient. It topped itself off with a cheating (ex) boyfriend- who in reality- John had gone to ask to be his fiancé. But he hadn't- and there wasn't a day that John thanked himself for  _ waiting _ . He poured the tea down the sink and washed it out before setting it back on the counter. It felt oddly like old times. And it was  _ spiteful _ . John felt the anger burn through his stomach, singing his heart as it travelled. He took a deep breath steadying himself before walking back to his original place on the door, still waiting for Sherlock's answer.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock stared to the ceiling silently.  _ Captain Watson _ . It made him shiver with pure jealousy, from  _ need _ . How many times had he imagined he would be the the one to moan that? And a random woman had gotten to live out  _ Sherlock’s  _ fantasies? He hid his sadness and self-pity by glancing toward his interlaced laced fingers. "He's not my boyfriend. We have sex but that's it. It could be more, _ a lot more if you hadn't decided to throw him out of the flat _ . I'm sure he is walking toward his flat, and he'll catch a cold." He didn't really care about him, but... He had been the only one who had been here for him when John left. "He didn't even get close to your dear armchair. Actually, there's nothing he really touched. Go ahead." He sighed sadly, and shifted.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John walked to his chair, foot-dragging slightly, before sitting down on the familiar cushions. He sighed- this was home. And in every truth, reality, and dimension, he'd missed it. He glanced up at Sherlock, unconsciously looking for the detective to have his fingers steepled under his chin or madly typing away at his laptop. Instead, there was only sadness there. Right. John put up his walls as well, realizing that they'd wavered as soon as he'd entered the flat- leaving him vulnerable for Sherlock to see. 

 

He looked into the empty fireplace, the empty coffee table, empty living room. It felt oddly unreal. This was his house- meant to be home, but it wasn't as comforting as it had been before. John squeezed his eyes shut as images of Max and Sherlock danced before him. Right there- on that sofa. That's where it had gone to all hell. He forced himself to breathe as a fresh wave of hurt gripped his heart and squeezed tightly. Now was not the time. Right now, he had to be a soldier. That meant to  _ hell _ what happened to him. He cleared his throat, forcing back memories and harsh words, "If I hadn't thrown him out of the flat, you would’ve been working as Moriarty's partner in no time." 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock glanced to John and rolled his eyes, clearly not believing the doctor. "Oh, really?" He asked sarcastically. "Maybe that's what I  _ want _ . Working with a dead man, help destroying the world." He sighed and scratched the cushions in a bored way. "Seriously, John? Moriarty. That's all you could find? ....One word. You could have told me one word, and I would have left him to stay with you. But clearly, you no longer want me, so, leave. Leave instead of lying over the only person who cares about me." He shook his head, he couldn't believe what John was saying. "He loves me.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John leaned back, pretending to ignore most of the things Sherlock was saying. He opened his eyes again- a fire dancing fiercely and threateningly behind the blue. He looked at the table that John and Sherlock had once cluttered and shared, eyeing Sherlock's tea mug and the crumbs of the biscuits he loved so dearly. He felt rage burn at the detective's words.  _ I loved you too, you bastard. So much.  _ "How could he know that. If the two were you only bedding each other- how in hell could he know that those biscuits are your favourites?” The doctor ignored the fact that they were the exact same ones he’d bought for Sherlock two days or so ago. “He's trying to get you on his side, Sherlock. The bath, all of it. I don't care if you believe me or not- I'm only here as a guard dog." John got up, running up to his bedroom and retrieving the velvet box. Wordlessly, he opened the window and threw it out as far as he could. Perhaps it'd bring some good fortune to some random bastard. He smiled dryly to himself as he closed the window. He was just a guard dog that had managed to fall in love with his owner, and that’s all he’d ever be.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock looked the crumbs of biscuits silently. John was right. If he took the time to focus on the facts, he remembered he had never told Max the details he knew somehow. Not even once he had suggested that he liked these specific biscuits. And the bath. How had he known he liked this particular bath-bomb the best?

 

Sherlock got up and went to John's room, rushing inside. But before he could speak, he saw him throwing.... Throwing. Throwing their love away. He gasped, but said nothing.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John glared silently at Sherlock from where he was. It had now progressed from utter betrayal, then sadness, now anger. The man was practically fuming. True- the ring-throwing was  _ a bit not good  _ moment, but Sherlock had gone way too far for the doctor to even care. John felt the ghost of the box in his hand and he sighed brashly, getting back up. He slammed the door, and went downstairs and out the building. This was stupid.  _ Stupid Stupid Stupid.  _ Falling in love was stupid. Taking care of people was stupid.

 

Because in the end, those people only ripped your heart out and served it for dinner.

 

He clambered out the door before looking for it, cursing himself as he did so.

"Oi! Mate, this yours?" The girl held up the box.

"Aren't you the girl- from the bridge? The  _ investment _ ?" She grinned cheekily and handed him the ring and the doctor smiled weakly back. He rushed back into the flat, looking at both sides of the street before he closed the door and climbed up the stairs back to 221B.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock had been silent the whole time. He went back to the living room, his lower lip shaking from the rush of emotions. What happened was easy to understand, John had been planning to... He couldn't say the word, couldn’t even  _ think _ about it. Sherlock had crushed down his own happiness, destroyed everything and what for? For a man who was without any doubt what John had accused him to be. For pleasure, he had foolishly thought was impossible to get from John. For...

 

For nothing. Nothing was worth betraying the one Sherlock loved, but he was only  _ human _ . They were all human, and the hardest thing was to move on, to understand the world kept moving, no matter what, no matter who was broken, bruised, or dead.

 

The world simply kept turning, forcing everything in it along.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John stiffly walked back over to his armchair, throwing the box in a light toss at Sherlock as he did so- the soldier knowing that the detective would reflexively grab it. He sat back down before crossing his legs, ankle over knee, and leaning back, fingers resting on his temple as he did nothing but stare straight in front of him, past the side of Sherlock's head and at the wallpaper behind him. "Might as well give it you. Have no reason for it now." John murmured to himself, "Don't even remember where I bought it- too  _ bloody _ excited back then." 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock's fingers started to tremble as he held the holy box. This wasn't just  _ a box _ . It was what his life could have- what should have been. A wedding. Soft touches. Gentle words. He didn't dare to open it, as if he could possibly ruin this moment even more. But it was already destroyed. "...You should go and give it to someone else." He whispered but couldn't throw it back. He kept the sealed box against his chest. Against his heart.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John lifted the corner of his lip up dryly. As if he could give anything that he'd given to  _ Sherlock _ to anyone else. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, taking in the scent of home before he would leave again- never coming back. After Moriarty was no longer a threat, perhaps he'd get himself into the Witness Protection Program and move to the Americas. 

 

_ John Watson? _ Stay away from London? 

 

He opened his eyes, daydreams leading to ridicule. He was destined to be tortured in the same city, over and over. He stared behind Sherlock's head, not wanting to do much of anything.

 

Perhaps he'd write his blog.

 

Of course, it wouldn't be published, but at least it was a way to "fix trust issues" with himself. Or something like that- it's what Ella had told him. But then again, she had been a terrible therapist. He barely looked at Sherlock, knowing full well that the man was holding the box in a way that John hadn't imagined when he had planned on the proposal. It was only held with sadness and self-pity. Served the bastard right. John got up and made his way to his bedroom, looking for his laptop before bringing it back downstairs. Guard dogs had to stay by their orders. He sat back into his chair, thinking of what the hell to write, wishing to himself that if he could type an alternative "ending" on the blog, then it would come true.

 

This wasn't magic. This was reality. And reality had it so that Sherlock and John were idiots- one more than another in some way and the other more than the other in different ways. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock was silent. Usually, he didn't mind the silence. The silence meant just as much as the music played, and the silences between Sherlock and John were usually as much important as their words, as important as their laughs. The silence, they shared it, one focused on his experiment, the other on his blog. It was a comfort, a cocoon where they both know they were at ease. At home.

 

Now, the silence separated them. Sherlock wanted to reach out and give it meaning, but when the silence kept the people away, it meant that words were useless. 

 

The silence was loud and heavy in the curly haired man and he got up, taking his phone as he left the room. He locked himself up in his room, before opening the window and escaping through it, wondering how long it would for John to figure it out.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John pushed the laptop off his lap, clutching to his chest as he did so, trying his damn best to tear away the pain. Sherlock had left for his room- all John needed to do now was stay silent. The man breathed heavily, feeling his head throb with the sudden release of emotions, all of them like demons filling his chest cavity, slamming themselves into the inside of John's wall. He scratched and tore at his jumper as best as he could, hyperventilation kicking in. 

 

Back to the sadness, then. 

 

He stood up from his armchair, shaking as he made his way over to the window, throwing it open and gasping in breaths as he closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them- he saw only what could be described as pure  _ idiocy.  _ The mop of curly hair agilely travelled through the streets, dodging and blending in with the crowd of common folk. God, this  _ bastard _ . His stupid, idiot, gigantic arsehole of a bastard had simply decided to lie to John  _ again _ . 

 

The doctor bound down the stairs, heavy footsteps thudding as he ran outside. His height was an unfair advantage, yes- but he was a soldier. The doctor pushed his way through crowds, heading in the general direction of the way Sherlock had gone, ignoring angry glares once more. He pushed through bodies, quiet and uncaring before he found himself pushed into an alleyway- a dark sack being thrown over his head as he fought diligently- only being calmed by a syringe that was eventually inserted into the doctor's neck.

 

_ “Gottle o' geer,  _gottle o' geer, _gottle o' geer."__  
_

 

The images of the pool scene flew through his head- familiar words ringing through his mind as he felt himself lose consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _____ n_n  
> ____ ( • - •)  
> ____ (.......)  
> __ c= (') (')
> 
>  
> 
> CAMILLE THE CAT MAGNET.


	13. Chapter 13

_"Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer."_

 

 

The images of the pool scene flew through his head- familiar words ringing through his head as he felt himself lose consciousness.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The detective didn't know where to go, but he couldn't stay at home. The silence was too loud, there. Here, at least, in the streets, there were stupid people, noises, vain discussions. But the weight of the box in his pocket was overwhelming. He could run away, but he couldn't escape his own body. He was a prisoner of his mind, of his own thoughts.

 

He had nowhere to go. He found St. Bart’s hospital while he walked, imagining what it would feel like to ask a chemical help, something to shoot his brain with wide and disturbing happiness. He kept walking, quicker, almost running. 

And then, it happened. He finally was at Max's. 

 

If John had been right, Max was dangerous. Would only lead Sherlock onto becoming Moriarty’s partner.

 

Sounded like good way to focus on something new.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John found the cloth ripped off his head in one fluid motion. He was kneeled, arms tied to either side of the room with rope. "Hello, hello  _ Johnny boy! _ " The spider walked into the room, grinning, his hands in his pockets. The doctor looked up, still a bit dizzy from whatever they had given him. His mouth felt thick and dry.  _ Sherlock.  _ The fucking  _ bastard _ . John hazily tugged at the bindings around his wrist but the army doctor was unable to get himself free. It was only understandable, John was what one would call  _ “under influence.” _ "This is all a bit cliché, you know? Faking your death- torturing me in a grimy room with my hands tied. I thought you were supposed to be the  _ creative _ one." Moriarty's smile widened.

 

"Oh don't worry about  _ that _ , Johnny! I can personally assure you that  _ my _ torture methods are  _ muchhhhh _ more interesting." John closed his eyes momentarily, feeling his head spin and forcing it to clear.

 

"I'm  _ not  _ worrying. Sherlock'll come- he always does." John doubted the words, and with good reason, too. The detective had most likely gone off to his lover’s and the doctor didn’t hold much hope in his words. He grunted though, when his words landed him whips on his back, cutting through shirt and skin, feeling sticky blood start to flow.

 

"Now, now, Johnny boy- I expected better from  _ you _ ." The doctor stared up, unflinching. Moriarty only smiled and went on. "I don't want him- never have. It was always you I was after, Johnny. A new toy to break. I've met  _ so. many. people.  _ like Sherlock- but you, a loyalist that would leave your boyfriend's side no matter what he did- you were...  _ interesting _ ." The man looked down, eyes holding a glint with hints of adoration and excitement. "And you'll be so  _ fun _ to play with, too!" John arched his back as he felt the harsh leather come down on his back again, blood coating and running from the open, deep welts.

 

"Sherlock was  _ always  _ stronger than you. Better, smarter,  _ etcetera, etcetera _ ." The spider leant in closer, sensually touching John's face, "But you were always prettier. This whole thing isn't about  _ him. _ " He straightened up, pinching John's cheek before swinging the whip again. "You'll only be prettier after I'm done with you, Johnny. Oh- don't look at me like that, I won't touch your face." Jim winked as if it were an inside joke between the two and comically shrugged when he only got a glare in response. He walked behind John once more, unflinchingly whipping John's back, the doctor scrunching his eyes closed and looking at the grimy ground. The man traced his fingers in a caress on John's back after he was done, the blood from a total of seventeen wounds all coating his fingers. "You'll love it, don't you worry, darling.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

When Sherlock pushed the door open, Max didn't startle. He smiled to his boyfriend, gently, warmly, but the sight looked fake, now that John had opened the detective's eyes with truth. He was a fake. 

 

"Yes." Sherlock said sharply. Max frowned. "Yes what, da’ling?" Sherlock glared to him. "Yes, I accept whatever Moriarty wants to do to me. Tell him. Right. Now.”

 

Max didn't bother protesting. He sent a text to his boss, quickly typing that the detective was ready. He didn't care about the how, after all. His job had been to manipulate Sherlock. And he had done it successfully. The ache he felt in his heart was something he didn’t want to question.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

“You know, I  _ did  _ try to substitute in someone for you.  _ Sebastian Moran.  _ Something always felt... missing.” Moriarty paced leisurely in front of John, moving his hands as he talked. “I thought he could fix it even though I  _ didn’t. Know. What.  _ it was. I laid in bed, him sleeping on the floor next to it- when I realized--  _ Oh! John Hamish Watson. _ The detective’s weakness. All I was missing was a way to satisfy my curiosity. All I was missing was you.” The man crouched, using his fingers to grip the older man’s jaw. “You should’ve seen the horror on his face, it was  _ mm, _ fantastic!” John breathed evenly, his pain distracting from the words. This was  _ insanity _ . “My favourite part is when you can watch the life run out of them. I simply  _ have _ to show you sometime.” John gritted his teeth together, the man now behind him and pressing into the deep, open wounds. “Perhaps I’ll even have the opportunity to demonstrate it. All for my very own John Watson.” The doctor looked up, fire dancing dangerously behind his eyes.

 

“I am  _ not  _ yours.” 

 

“Then who’s are you, Johnny boy? Definitely not Sherlock’s. He off with his lovely,  _ new _ , homicidal boyfriend.” John felt stars behind his eyes as the spider slapped him, his body losing its sense of balance with the onslaught of pain and blood loss. And betrayal. Sherlock wasn’t looking for him. Hell, he was probably shagging Max this instant, even with the knowledge of him being a spy. John took in a deep breath, not being able to hold his weight up anymore.

 

“ _ Mmm _ , thought that might get a reaction out of you.” John sniffed slightly, feeling where the spiders ring had cut his cheek.

 

“I despise you.”

 

“Not for long, darling,”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock was handcuffed and blindfolded by Max, carefully, almost  _ lovingly _ . His fingers were brushing against the detective's skin, his nails scratching the sensitive spot of his bony wrist. The lips of Max were pressed just below Sherlock's ear, before sliding down, following the curves of his neck. His hand squeezed the detective's waist, the thumb between the trousers and the pale hipbone. 

 

Sherlock was shuddering, as cold air hit him. His lips fell open lightly, his heart accelerated as he smelled the iron scent that filled the room he had been taken in to.

 

"Boss? You weren't answering to my texts, so… I brought him here." Max said, pulling the detective to stand in front of the consulting criminal.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked up, eyes bright as he heard the disgustingly familiar voice, forcing his eyes to adjust to what he was seeing.  _ Sherlock _ . "Sherlock," Moriarty allowed for the word out right, pure happiness shining in his eyes. The spider crouched again, a knife in his hand, pressing the blunt side harshly to part the open, bloody skin on his back, effectively forcing the man to scream, arching his back as he did so. He didn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock, even though his back was on fire- as if the detective would disappear if he took his eyes off him. The consulting criminal let go, a smile painting his face. "You truly are pretty, Johnny, especially when you make such  _ beautiful  _ sounds. How Sherlock could ever  _ imagine  _ letting you go-" He sighed dramatically, adding to theatrics. John panted, unable to catch his breath.

 

"Sher- Sherlock. Doesn’t want you, he wants" The last word  _ me _ was turned into a grunt once again, accompanied by the sound of whip hitting skin and the skin splitting underneath the pressure. "You just don't stop, do you?" The spider leant forward, holding the man's face tightly, not allowing for any movement before pressing his lips down to John's, moving them sensually before attacking at them harshly. John felt blood drip down his lip, as he struggled, attempting to pull back far enough to head-butt the man, considering his hands and legs were tied up. Around John's lips, Moriarty mumbled, "Check him down. Holding cell- he'll be fun enough for a while," before pressing his lips back to John's, drawing out the sounds of the messy, bloody kiss with smacks and moans.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock didn't see anything with the blindfold covering his eyes. But he heard everything too perfectly. He heard John's scream, and his back was torn apart, Sherlock's heart tore too. Max kept his grip, as the detective tried to struggle, to free himself, to reach his love. His true love.

But the noise of the kiss made his heart stopping to beat, more than when he heard Moriarty's voice, after having thought he was dead since so long. "Leave him alone!" He shouted. "Jim, I'm here! Hurt me. Let John be!”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Moriarty smiled, deepening the kiss, his moans become more animated as John struggled his best to get away before sighing and getting up, rolling his eyes a hint. "You're  _ boring  _ Sherlock. But him-" the man ran scarily loving, soft fingers across John's tired, bleeding face, "He's  _ breathtaking _ ." John breathed as deeply as he could, trying to figure out what words to force through his swollen lips. The spider grinner, pulling out his gun and placing it at John's temple, cocking it, "Oh what you've losssttt, Sherlock Holmmmesss." He looked sharply up at Max before relaxing it into a manic smile, "Cell. Now. Or you'll find yourself one finger less for every minute of my time you waste, cooked into a broth and shoved boiling down your throat.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Max tightened his grip on Sherlock's wrists, as he screamed and struggled frantically, comparative to a mad man. John. His John was in pain. Because of  _ him _ , because of his stupidity. Because he had been looking for sexual pleasure. "John! John! John!" He kept yelling, as Max tried to pull him toward the cell. "Moriarty, I'd do anything, don't hurt him! Don't hurt my love!" He shook his head. "Yes! Yes, I want to marry you!”

-x-x-x-x

 

John froze as he heard the words. As if he  _ wanted  _ to marry Sherlock. In truth, John still did. A nice, blissful little domestic eutopia for the pair of them with nights of rough pleasure. But that wasn't... possible. John was breaking, a sharp crack being chiselled by Sherlock, only widened by Moriarty- all of it leading to the fact that one day, the doctor would simply be a mess of two parts on the floor. John forced himself to count the seven whips that had followed Sherlock's words, feeling new bouts of blood that ran down him. "Oh yes, sweetheart, these will scar  _ beautifully _ . You'll adore them. Look in a mirror, craning your neck in a position so  _ easy to snap _ , as you look at how i've marked you," Moriarty gripped at John's grown-out hair, forcing the man to look up, "How you're  _ mine _ ." He had rid of the gun, explaining that it had only been for theatrics, and had thrown it against the wall, where John's gun way laying as well.

  
He had to get out. He needed to get out. "Don't be  _ obvious _ , darling- we'll have none of that fierceness in your eyes. I'll break you, mold you into a perfect man- custom made for me!" Jim ran his fingers through John's hair, "Just as Sherlock almost made of you, but he didn't get that little fire out of your eyes. Nothing to worry about. He got too close, though. Look at you, nearly perfectly  _ bespoke _ for him. I'll have to take you apart and put you together all over again." John had a total of twenty four cuts overlapping on his back, all freely bleeding. He panted, feeling much more light headed than he had minutes ago, phrases from Moriarty, Sherlock-- tied up, all swimming through his head while the liquid drained from his back. The man seemed to sense his concern, "Bring some bandages when you come back down, Maxxie boy! My John Watson needs itttt!" The man turned back to the beaten army-soldier on the floor. "Now, where were we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written with Camille-- who is a brilliant writer and constantly wows me.
> 
> Anyone want to set me an update schedule? I could do it once a week, you could choose the day. Apparently, I just need to be held accountable.


	14. Chapter 14

"Bring some bandages when you come back down, Maxxie boy! My John Watson needs itttt!" The man turned back to the beaten army-soldier on the floor. "Now, where were we?”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Despite Sherlock's desperate attempts, Max threw him into a tiny cell. Before the detective could get up and rush to the door, it was locked. "John!" He kept screaming, hitting the bars. Max sighed sadly and shook his head, whispering. “human error."

 

Human error.

It sounded right into Sherlock's mind. Human error.

 

"Max." He breathed out. "Release me. Please, Max, I..." He paused. "The things you told me. You weren't just pretending. You truly enjoyed spending time with me. Open this door. Moriarty will kill me if you don’t."

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Moriarty waited for a total of no seconds before he turned to look at John. "Apologies, Johnny boy.  _ Humans _ \- never on time, are they?" The man held up a finger, smiling apologetically before pocketing his gun from the wall and sweeping out of the room and to where John assumed the holding cells were. The doctor waited until he heard the footsteps faint before throwing off his display of tiredness. He forced himself to concentrate, convincing his body that he could stop the pain only if he got free. 

 

The man tugged at the ropes with renewed effort before realizing that he still had his pen in his pocket. He could untie himself if he managed to get it, wringing it between the loops of the knots and wiggling to loosen them. The man tried his best not to scream as he saw red before his eyes. He needed a goal. Something to save- something to live for. Sherlock. For today, Sherlock would take the place. One last time, John thought.  _ I will allow myself to be hurt one. last. time. for him.  _ He straightened himself, laying on his side to tilt his hips up to his left hand in attempt to reach for it.   _ Just a bit more, Captain.  _ The man refused to relax, even once the item was in his hand, awkwardly twisting it up to jam it in between the material that bound him before relentlessly moving it around, thoughts of Sherlock and determination running through his head.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock’s eyes were begging Max. His pride didn't matter if he could save John by sacrificing it. "I'd do anything, just... Just let me out. Let me get out, Love. We can run away from Moriarty, from John, just the two of us." If he got free, he would run away with John. Not with Max. But the man had to believe it. "Please?"

 

And then, he saw Moriarty entering. Too late. He couldn't manipulate the man if his boss was listening. It meant John was safe in the meantime, though. "Why are you here?” He asked coldly.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Jim looked up through his eyelashes, playfully tilting his head to one side. He ignored Sherlock, keeping a sickly sweet smile on his face and turned towards Max. "Maxxie boyyyyy? I thought I told you to get me some bandages." Before the man could protest or give some silly excuse, Jim rolled his eyes and raised his hand, random gun pointing towards the man's rib before he fired, shot sounding throughout the room. He crouched, facing the wound at eye level. "Oh look! Just a graze. I'll tell you what, darling. If you patch up Johnny the same way you'd patch up dearest Sherlock here, I might just seal that little wound shut before you bleed yourself out of your pathetic. little. life." His eyes changed, taking on a menacing glare, his face rid of all emotions except for dead seriousness. "If you make him wince in the slightest, I will  _ skin  _ you and make you into shoes.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

It was so sudden, so violent that Sherlock gasped and stepped back. Moans of pain escaped Max, as he vainly held his side, blood sliding between his fingers. His face was twisted in pain. Sherlock didn't want to protect him, but... "He can't! Jim, he can't even get up, how could he patch someone up? That's crazy!" Max reached out, tried to say something to Sherlock. "Jim, come on. Look at him, he can't. But I can.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

"Oh Sherlock. Dear, sweet, innocent,  _ stupid _ Sherlock," Jim shook his head in mocking sympathy. "You have no idea what people will do for their life will you?" John thought to himself, shrugging once, "But you do know what people will do for other people's’' lives." The consulting criminal pointed his gun at Sherlock, finger resting languidly on the trigger. He turned to face Max, who was on the floor groaning, blinking up with pain. "You love him, Maxxie. How sweet is that? The assassin falls in love with his victim. Simply  _ charming _ ." He looked back down at Sherlock, his eyes dead and set as cement. "Go tend to  _ my _ John Watson, sweetheart. And i'll ship the two of you off to a niceee vacation in- oh what was that place?" The spider scratched his head with the tip of his gun, trying to remember, "The  _ Bahamas _ . How's that? That's where all boring people like you go, don't they?" Moriarty faced back at Sherlock. "Go on, Maxxxxx, or you lover here will be-" Jim clicked his tongue, allowing for the meaning to carry on itself.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock had been right about Max. About his warm smile after sex, when he caressed the detective's chest with the tip of his fingers, for no other reason than to feel his heart beat. He had been right about their kisses, when sometimes, rough and violent wasn't enough and Sherlock had needed soft and gentle. 

 

It was the human error that kept breath coming out of Max's lungs, his face twisting in an horrible expression of agony. He managed to get up and to walk toward the door, a hand covering his side. He was in pain, ready to collapse at any moment. It broke Sherlock's heart, and he wondered if John had ever loved him that much.

 

As he observed Max leaving the room, blood dripping through his fingers on the floor, Sherlock understood that, yes, he loved the doctor, but that he also loved Max. Not exactly as the same, immense love he had for John. Not as someone he could marry, or not even spend his life with. But he wanted the man to be alive, he wanted to protect this body and this mind which called him "da'ling." He had spent hours in his arms, and sometimes, yes, sometimes, when things weren't great with John, when they argued, Sherlock could bear the pain only because there was Max coming just after the doctor would leave. He pressed his forehead against the bars, his heart aching.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John struggled silently, a fresh coat of sweat burning salt into the space where his back bled out of. He had managed to loosen it, but not quite enough to simply struggle out of it. Without thinking, the doctor reacted to the footsteps that were coming this way by harshly pulling at the rope once more. He felt his wrists turn red with their brashness, completely ignoring the total of twenty-seven lashes that lined his boy. Another set of footsteps walked with the first pair, pristine and playful. Jim Moriarty walked into the room, glaring behind him silently in a  _ what's taking you so long _ look at Max. The answer for that would be where the man had clasped his hand over, nearly bleeding freely. John's eyes widened at the sight, almost slipping into army medic mode. 

 

Sherlock loved this man. If this was what would  _ truly _ save Sherlock Holmes, then so be it. He'd have to save Max for the detective. The spider skipped closer lightly before crouching and pressing his lips to John's cheek, pulling back and frowning lightly when the man pulled away. He stood, grabbing his whip once more, holding a finger up to bloody Max- who held bandages and antibacterial soothing cream. John felt his hair be pulled back, forced to look up at the spider. "Count, sweetheart. I do love the sounds you make!!" The doctor relaxed his neck, his head falling onto his chest with the lack of someone to hold him up. The first whip echoed through the building, John craning his back to get away while refusing to make any sound at all. Moriarty hit harder next time- and the next. And the one out of that. "Count. For. Me. John." Each word was accentuated by a whip. The doctor refused. "If you don't count for me, darling- I'll have lovely Sherlock do it." The threat in it was obvious. John took in a breath, "Eight." Moriarty smiled, reaching down for another kiss and using his left had to push into the doctor's wounds. "Perfect. Loud, though. Oh- and scream more, want your Sherlock to hear it don't you? Or I just might have to bring him in." John would fall if Sherlock came in. Another distraction from the main goal of saving him. John grunted as he forced a quiet  _ nine _ out of his mouth. "Sorry, darling. What. Was. That?" Each word was enunciated with a crack sharper than the last, pants and gasps escaping John's mouth. "Nine!" John tried his best to struggle, still keeping concentrated on the ropes. 

 

Moriarty went through six more whippings before crouching behind John's back and running a small finger through the blood. John screamed through all of them, unable to hide his pain from the monster anymore as he was cut and hurt again and again- reverberating his tortured shouts throughout the building. Thirty-two. Thirty-two Whips. Thirty-two cuts and scars and wounds that would haunt John forever. The spider stood, licking the blood off his fingers before he gestured to Max.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Max was emptying himself of his blood, but he patiently waited for Moriarty to have his fun. He was panting, and only the thought of avoiding a bullet to live inside Sherlock's beautiful head kept him standing. Once the criminal told him he could, he crouched, his face twisting in a horrible expression of pain, and he started to take care of John's injuries. His fingers trembled, but he was as careful as he could be as he worked on the wounds. He cleaned them up, bandaged them.

 

…..

 

Sherlock was becoming crazy. He knew he couldn't escape, it was pointless to try, but he still hit the bars, as he heard John's screams. It broke his heart, crushed his soul, he just.... "John! No! Stop! Oh, God!" He pulled on the bars, paced in towards the back of the cell to find a weak link. He was  _ desperate _ .  It reminded him of a torture method he’d stored in his mind palace years ago- tormentors put rat and mice on a victim’s belly, a cage stopping them from running away. The steel was warmed up (by John's screams, in Sherlock’s case) and the mouse’s only way to escape as through panic was to dig a way out, dig their own path through the victim's belly. 

 

Sherlock was a mouse. He shook the bars, panicked. But he couldn't escape. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

He had a dribble of spit running down the side of his mouth, along from the blood from when Moriarty had kissed and bit him earlier. Jim approached him once again with what seemed like a sincerely sympathetic smile. He crouched in front of John, scary humanness in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Johnny boy. I know you’re hurting, but oh  _ god  _ is it pretty to watch you in pain.” John spit the blood that had coagulated in his mouth (most likely from esophageal bruising, leading to minor tearing- the screams) next to  where Jim was kneeled. The man only smiled, loving that he had drawn out a response at all. He leant in, uncaring of the iron-smelling liquid coating johns lips and the inner of his mouth as he connected their lips together again, forcing his tongue into the mans mouth and licking the blood away. He pulled back, glee shining in his eyes before he began unbuttoning Johns shirt. 

 

John struggled harder (taking care not to move his left again in fear of tightening the rope beyond the possibility of untangling them), “Let me go, you bastard! I’ll bloody kill you if you touch me. Sherlock! Figure out an esca-” The doctor tried his best to stand in his legs again only to be pushed down to his knees once more. “I like you better down there, Johnny. Now, stay.” The doctor growled harshly before trying to rise to his feet again, only to be met with the sound of a sharp slap, feeling his skin tingle with the impact. His head was whipped back- but the doctor refused to succumb to shock, instead lifting one leg up and kicking Moriarty squarely in the stomach looking up at Max. “Unite me, now!” The man stood, eyes wide and mouth hinged open slightly. How this man had ever become a spy- “Now, Max!” 

A shot rang out, filling the room with a horrible sound, vibrations echoing due to how closed- off it was. John looked down at his shoulder, realizing that he’d been the one shot.  _ Again _ . The scar tissue had been ripped through, his scar being reopened and drilled into the same way. John felt his eyes roll back as he began falling down, the whole room silent all of a sudden- six words ringing through his head as he did so.  _ “Please god, let my Sherlock live.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Camile has inspired me to pursue my own art. So here, I present to you, a spider.
> 
> 8_8
> 
> I think.
> 
>  
> 
> \--
> 
> What's your favourite day of the week, dear reader? I'll update the chapters, then.


	15. Chapter 15

John felt his eyes roll back as he began falling down, the whole room silent all of a sudden- six words ringing through his head as he did so. _“Please god, let my Sherlock live.”_

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The noise of the gun spitting his bullet out echoed, reaching Sherlock who in turn, broke down. He collapsed on the ground as if the strings holding him had been cut.

 

He thought it had been Max. It had to be Max.

He couldn't bear it if it had been John.

 

…..

  


Max glanced down to the bleeding doctor, shivering. He knew what would happen if he disobeyed Moriarty, he had seen enough snipers, spies, assassins, etc being destroyed, crushed, burned alive. He wasn't scared of being killed nor of being in pain, but he was afraid of being sent to Hell.

Panting, he reached out, trying to stop John from bleeding out. Discreetly, he slid a tiny knife in the doctor’s hand.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

“Work time for the grown-ups, Max. Got to go kidnap some priests. Take care of my Johnny boy, I’ll be home before he knows it!” The man bent over the unconscious ex-army man, pressing a small kiss to his sleeping beauty’s lips before pressing his fingers into the bleeding hole of ripped flesh, earning no response from the unconscious doctor. “Oh, and Maxie, patch yourself up if you can.”

 

…..

 

John felt trapped. A prison of sleep underlined by pure, fiery pain. His eyes moved behind his eyelids, frantic and trying their best to wake up. The doctor was losing blood and his wounds were open to the grimly floor- open to infections. He forced himself to move, trying to do anything to ground himself before he succumbed fully to the shock and pain, feeling nothing except for the hint of cool metal in his hand.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Max waited until his boss left the room. Then, a shaky breath escaped his lips. He left John alone, hurrying as quickly as he could toward the cell holding Sherlock.

When he saw Max, the heart of the detective stopped beating. It meant- It meant John...

 

"A...Alive." Max hissed, unlocking the door, half collapsing against the bars. "T-There. Go." Sherlock couldn't leave his lover alone. He slid his arm around his shoulders, and half carrying him, hurrying toward the room that he’d been taken originally- John still was.

 

"John!" He screamed. "Oh, God. John!" He crouched close to the doctor, while Max was pitifully turning pale. "Don't die. The both of you. Don't die!" He cut the thick ropes as quickly as he could.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John felt himself slacken, his body falling to the ground. He would’ve stayed that way if it hadn’t been for Sherlock’s voice snipping through his head. The doctor forced his eyes open, looking around hazily. The man could feel his blood pounding, whole body in rhythmic beat as he momentarily closed his eyes, threatening to succumb back into unconsciousness.

 

“John!” The man threw open his eyes almost guiltily, as if he’d been caught sleeping in after an alarm clock had sounded. He tried his best to move but felt more or less that he was weighed down on his left sideline nothing except for a wild flash of white and red pain twisting together. “Sher-“ John took in a deep breath, letting out a low, harsh shout when he felt his shoulder. He looked down at it confusedly, not understanding why it was being so immobile.

 

It wasn’t even raining outside. The doctor looked closer, using his right, useable arm to nudge his unbuttoned shirt out of the way. _Oh god._ John felt his head spin, eyes defocusing before he blinked harshly, bringing himself back using pain as determination. The wound had cut through Johns shoulder neatly and the amount of bleeding was usual for such wounds. But still, it was familiar. Horribly familiar. John looked at it closer, his back also bleeding down and into and onto his jeans. The bullet had gone through his scar exactly, not even a millimetre off. Through johns unending hate, the man duly acknowledged how good of a shot Moriarty was.

 

He looked up at Sherlock with unreadable, hatred-filled eyes, though it wasn’t known if the hatred was for Sherlock, Max, or Moriarty himself. He looked at the man in Sherlock’s hands- who was holding him possessively. John, even though his body on fire, put up his walls, eyes turning into a shielded fortress from vulnerability. “Mycroft-“ John forced himself to concentrate, straining, “Mycroft can’t reach us here- I can,” The doctor took in a deep breath, biting on his tongue in attempt to find some sense of control. “Find stitches. Or floss and a needle, anything. He’s losing too much blood too fast. Something to disinfect if you can manage.” John forced himself to push his way to the wall, using it to push himself to a crouching position- back against it as he managed to push himself half a foot before he fell back down. He closed his eyes, a moan interlaced with pain escaping him.

 

For fucks sakes, the man was bleeding out but was trying his best to save another. Ever the soldier... Ever the romantic. This man- _Max_ meant a lot to Sherlock, and who was John if he wasn’t purely loyal- even if it got him killed. He forced himself back to his feet, up into a crouch while using his right hand to steady himself, back against wall- uncaring of the grime that was swept into the wide wounds.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

At this point, Max was curled up on the ground. He could no longer stand, it was too painful. He kept staring to Sherlock, the last sight he ever wanted to see. The only picture that was worthy to be brought with him to the next world.

 

…..

 

Sherlock covered his mouth as the horror of the situation punched him in the stomach. He left the room, ran in others, trying to find... Something.

 

He came back with a bottle of vodka, threads, and needle. He held everything, looking to both men he loved more than himself, and understanding he couldn't live without John nor live with the guilt of Max's death.

The criminal glanced to the doctor then toward Sherlock. Silently.

 

The detective ran to John. "You first."

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked up, eyes dead, tired and unwanting. "Get away from me. Set those by him." The doctor grunted the words out with no sense of preamble, giving up with his task on standing. He hugged his arm to his chest as he crawled his best over with his one hand. The man hissed, feeling the healing welts on the back reopen, undoing the work his body had done and restarting the heavy blood that had been streaming out before.

 

It didn't matter. John stayed kneeling, gritting his teeth as harshly as he could, knowing full well that he had the perfect amount of time before he went into hemorrhagic shock. The room spun as John used his right hand to pull up the left, earning himself a pained shout. There was no one else to do it. Hell, if Sherlock actually had retained the information in his mind- the detective not really caring of anyone other than himself.

 

John's forced himself to concentrate, using the vodka to clean the wound before ordering Sherlock to thread the thread into the needle. He reached over with his left had to grab it, his face turning red with effort. Around him, there was a puddle of blood- Max's and John's combined. The doctor ignored it and made his shot arm come up, holding the needle in it with force as he used his uninjured left hand to hold the wound shut as best as he could. After what felt like _years in hell_ , John managed to fix the man up, checking for his pulse and breathing as he did so. Faint. But still there. "Hospital- he needs to go to hospital." The doctor exhaled, feeling each and every muscle in his body give up, not having enough oxygen delivered to them as he finally collapsed, his own pulse erratic and what seemed to be final words mumbled at Sherlock. "You bloody bastard. I hate you so much. There you go, I've patched up the man you love. Bye, you _fucking idiot_..." John took in a shuddering breath, not having enough time to debate his next words "--Love you." His already-closed eyes stopped moving from behind the eyelids as the doctor felt the life run out of him.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock couldn't look as John patched up his Max. He obeyed to what the doctor asked, but the sight of the needle plunging into the same skin he had kissed and caressed was too much. He looked away, his heart aching and accelerating, squeezed painfully into his chest.

And then, finally, he glanced to Max, barely conscious, and John who... Guilt was heavy.

He collapsed next to John, touching his face with shaky hands. "No, no, no. I love you. We're going to be so happy together. Just... Just stay with me."

John was bleeding out too quickly. There was no way he would survive if it continued to this pace. "...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He whispered, broken, as he grabbed the needle and the vodka. "It's going to hurt. Forgive me…" he said, his voice breaking and cracking with emotions he didn’t bother to hide. As he slid the needle into John's skin, Sherlock found himself unable to breathe any longer.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John barely registered the baritone words- floating unconsciously through his mind. He had nothing left. But the darkness that surrounded him and blood that was draining out of him. His breathing was shallow, diaphragm and intercostal muscles not having enough oxygen to even go through their respiratory process. It was almost bliss, the quiet, the uncaring. Just John in his world, floating away. Through the peace, he felt a sharp pain. Of course, the man wasn't conscious, but that didn't mean he didn't feel it. In fact, the pain was repeating itself over, and over, as John laid, unable to scream or grit his teeth at it. He snapped out of his darkness for the briefest of seconds, shouting deeply before he succumbed to it again. His world was red now. Fire, pain. It surrounded him like wisps of blood. It wasn't ending. The doctor felt a small tear run out from the corner of his closed left eye as he realized what was truly happening. _Sherlock._

And suddenly, John couldn't breathe at all anymore.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock hurried to close John’s bullet wound. It would be an ugly scar without any doubt, but he wasn't worrying over that right now. He just needed to close the injury before John would bleed out. "I can't lose you, I can't... John!" He felt life leaving his love, as well as his oxygen. His mouth pressed against John's in the least romantic way, and he shared his breath, tears rolling down his cheeks and falling all over John's.

A hissing noise came from Max's agony, but Sherlock didn't hear. He would always hear John’s heart. John’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Écrit avec ma formidable Camille.


	16. Chapter 16

A hissing noise came from Max's agony, but Sherlock didn't hear. He would always hear John’s heart. John’s life.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John felt himself slip fully, his mind clearing from the red into nothing. He laid, body limp and motionless as he was forced onto his back, air forcefully animating his chest cavity in attempt to trick it into breathing. His shoulder was patched up, still bleeding, but not as much as before. Nonetheless, things weren't great. If John had been his own doctor- he would've looked at him with a small fright before snapping instantly into critical Dr Watson mode. His heart beat too faint. Too close to stopping. 

 

Even through the pain, the doctor couldn't help but feel the light wetness of Sherlock's tears slipping down his cheek, by his nose, and into the crook of his own closed eyes, combining with his own tears before they slid off his face again. Sherlock? Crying? This wasn't real. Sherlock only cried when something truly terrible was going to happen- faking his death and other things that the detective would’ve given much not to have to do. John's death wasn't terrible. It meant that Sherlock and his lover could be happy. Without interruptions. Without John. The confusion pulled John out of his nothing and back into the red intertwined with the black. He forced his eyes open, despite the fact that they felt much heavier than anything John had had to lift before. His eyes held nothing but a question.

No time for hate when you're dying.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

As Sherlock's eyes fell on John's glassy ones, he stopped to fill his lungs with oxygen for a bit. Caressing, worshipping John's cheek, he begged, ”Stay with me... alive. Stay alive." More tears fell down from his cheeks, and he couldn't stop them. He kissed the doctor gently, with despair. "Please. Oh, please. Please..." 

His clothes were tainted with blood. His hands too, and touching John's hair only soiled it. But he couldn't stop. "I love you..." A breath, forced into John's lung. "I love you so much." And another. From speaking and sighing out, the detective lacked from oxygen himself. It didn't matter. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John melted into the kiss. The touches. All remembrance of a past life. The doctor allowed for a few more breaths to be pumped into him before he broke away, shallowly gasping on his own. The minuscule movement of breaking away from Sherlock’s lips sent his body on lockdown, pain reverberating from his hastily patched up shoulder and bleeding back- which would most likely become infected. The doctor was on his back at the moment, Sherlock having pushed him there to administer any compressions and though John was grateful, his brain could do little else than scream  _ bloody hell _ at the fresh agony that hit him at every brief movement. His shoulder very much had a hole through it, tilting up in the same angle in the same place that John had been shot before. He took in a shuddering gasp. “Get him to hospital, Sherlock. Now. He  _ will  _ die if you don’t.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock glanced to Max. He was still staring at him, but something in his gaze was missing. A shiver ran down the detective's spine at the sight of his lifeless eyes. Quickly, he grabbed his phone and called the emergencies, staying close to John. He couldn't do much more, refusing to leave his lover's side, and not knowing where he had been leaded to. But he managed to deduce in which area they were, and the emergencies promised to come as quickly as possible. 

 

…..

 

Max still watched his lover. But he could no longer see him. His own chest was barely moving. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

"Oh boyyyyyssssss! Having funnn?" Jim sauntered into the room with high spirits. "This has all been so verrryyy interesting!" The man pulled out a gun of his, the safety of every one of them seemed to be permanently off, and swung it around on one finger before crouching next to Max, looking down at his with sarcastic glee. He stood again and turned to look at John. The grin fell off his face, eyes becoming worried as he rushed over and kneeled in the blood that surrounded him. "Oh no, sweetheart- you can't die. You're too fun. No, no, no." The spider took John's pulse before pressing a kiss to the weakened man's lips, deepening it for the briefest of seconds before standing. He lifted the man up and threw him over his right shoulder, uncaring of his Westwood suit. "Ambulance'll take years getting here, baby, let's get you to a  _ real _ hospital ourselves." He ran out of the room as best as he could, John's blood running down his coat as the doctor weakly protested, reaching out for Sherlock before he passed out from the pain.

 

He was thrown into the backseat of an expensive car with surprising care. "Hush, now Johnny, don't say a word. We're going to get you fixed up." John looked up at the roof of the car, gritting his teeth, knowing that Sherlock was still in hearing distance, even if he had ignored the scene that Moriarty had just caused had instead stayed by his Max’s side. "Sherlock! Save him- Save Max!" The doctor strained the words out before he lost his battle with the pain and his vision went black.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Moriarty was the one who hurt John in the first place, but Sherlock didn't dare to stop the criminal to take his lover away. Not because he was scared for his own life, but because he knew that Moriarty would save John's life. With him, the doctor would live and it was a guarantee the detective couldn't offer. So, instead, he shouted, “John! I’ll find you!”

 

And then, he hurried toward Max, touching his face. He tried to slow the blood loss down, touched his side. But there was no reaction from the man.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Jim drove his car into the doors of his building. It had been built as a hospital but half of it had been turned into a torture chamber- so that they could treat their victims, keeping them alive after each "session." The spider ran out of the driver's door, "Stretcher- now! Or i'll be serving your families your intestines!" He opened the door to John's seat and allowed for the pair of male nurses and a surgeon and her helper to surround his sweetheart, the nurses pulling John onto the stretched and the surgeon's helper going over vitals as all four of them ran towards the operating room. 

Jim sighed, scratching his head irritably with his gun before he looked down at himself, coated in the doctor's blood. He grunted to himself before straightening out his coat, thinking to himself  _ Westwood _ . He would have to punish John for the bloody mess once he recovered. He walked around his car and out of the building.

 

John woke, hours later, his mind in a pleasant buzz of morphine. He shook his head in attempt to clear it as his brain finally caught up with what had happened. Oh god.  _ Oh god. _ John silently prayed to himself for Max's health. Though the doctor despised the man- he was the only person that Sherlock would ever truly love. And if John had to go to hell to save Sherlock Holmes, then he sure as bloody fuck was going to. John tried his best to sit up, only to fall back on the bed, feeling as if the weight of a thousand planets were pressing down on his shoulder. He groaned as he felt his back rub against the bandages and began bleeding again. John’s eyes fluttered as he heard someone enter the room, but he was already slipping into an exhausted sleep- the last thing he remembered being the fluorescent lights of the hospital room.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Max was preparing breakfast when Sherlock finally woke up. The detective had rarely slept these past few months, but even he was only human (though most of  _ humanity  _ seemed to forget that from time to time.) Even if he was exhausted, he knew he had to keep working- with Mycroft, with  _ anyone _ on trying to find Moriarty again. It had been months, but not once had the detective had lost hope. Not once had the detective stopped working and stopped trying to find his love.

 

It was eating his life away. Even in Max's embrace, he thought about John, and the ex-criminal knew about it. He’d sat patiently through Sherlock’s interrogations, calming him when the detective had gotten himself worked up way past unhealthy. Pressing touches and kisses when the detective cried, tears streaming down his face as he remembered life with a past that had meant to last. 

 

Right now, he kissed Sherlock lightly but the detective softly turned his head away. His phone rang. A text from Mycroft. He ignored the plate of the table and went straight to his phone.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

There weren't words to describe what was happening to John. Every day, he was awoken- well, not that he ever slept in the first place. Nonetheless, he was awoken by a messy kiss from Moriarty, the spider grinning down beside him from where the doctor stared up at the ceiling. He was forced to get dressed in the finest jumpers that he'd ever seen, but they weren't comfortable. They were more like the result of taking the comfort away from jumpers in general and replacing them with a  _ dolliness _ . 

 

His eyes contained no emotions. No smiles, not hate. Nothing. He was a shell of what he had once been. And it would be much a lie if it was said that John was surviving. He was not. He was dead. The first few weeks hadn't been too terrible. Still doped up on pain medication, he'd stayed in bed, only receiving cuddles and kisses from the man that had given John and Sherlock matching scars. John had fought back, kicking and screaming even though his body was in pain and his mind was on fire. 

 

After that… Moriarty had broken him. John Watson was a dead man. It was every day that Moriarty would look down into John's lifeless, a concentrating frown lining his insane face. "Not quite yet, John- haven't taken you apart quite yet." And after that- well. It was nothing that John wanted to talk about. He followed the man around, hints of fire burning through his eyes when the spider wasn't looking. But the heat was becoming colder. And over that, the light of it was more and more stretched out,  After all, what did the fire burn for? Certainly not for himself- John Watson had never lived for himself. There was no one else for the fire to burn for. Not even Sherlock.

  
  


But perhaps, it  _ was _ for Sherlock.

  
  


The thought of the man being happy with Max. The thought of him laughing, smiling- enjoying himself like he'd never done with John (even though John been more than willing.) Maybe he'd even become so human as to adopt a child. John wanted to see that. It was selfish. Idiotic.  _ Desperate _ . But the doctor held onto anything and everything he could.

  
  


Perhaps the fire burning was for selfishness.

  
  


Perhaps the fire burning  was for John Watson.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

One purposeful whisper from one random person. That's all it had taken,  _ one whisper _ , breath escaping parted lips, forming words, b _ a _ rely, just noises, almost sounds, reaching the big ear of one random spy, data being sent to the office of the most powerful man of the country.

 

They had worked without stopping for months, and one whisper had been enough. Enough to destroy Moriarty plan. Sherlock grabbed his coat after having checked his phone one last time. There was less than a minimal second to lose, as he hurried outside the flat, followed by Max. An innocent kiss shared as the ex-criminal promised to protect Sherlock including an extra promise to save John's life.

And then, they were rushing toward the “hospital,” the place, so close and yet so far. 

 

The place where John was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (More than) half of credit goes to Camille. She forced me to update, to reply back, and she still does. And I couldn't ask for a better, more insane, more amazing friend.


	17. Chapter 17

And then, they were rushing toward the “hospital,” the place, so close and yet so far. 

 

The place where John was.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John Watson sat silently, statue still with his body relaxed. It was Indian tonight- something that John had once adored, greasy, warm,  _ perfect _ . Moriarty scooped up the rice with the fork carefully, grinning before he brought it up to John's mouth. The doctor dutifully opened his mouth, not bothering to acknowledge when the spider moved a bit, adjusting his legs from where they were propped up by a man on his knees and forearms.. The consulting criminal pressed the sides of his razor-lazed shoes into the kneeled man's sides. Of course, John had originally winced, fought tooth and nail in objection against his feeding and the "footstool" that was set in place.

 

It didn't matter now. It was natural, casual- his new definition of  _ normal _ . Still, the ex-army surgeon stubbornly held his ground in quiet defiance by keeping his legs on the polished wood floor. He mechanically chewed before swallowing. His mind had disconnected weeks ago, only thoughts being  _ survive _ \- s _ urvive for Sherlock Holmes. _ John stayed the same stillness as James leant forward and placed a hand over John's wounded shoulder. It was scabbing. Had its stitches changed every quite so often. He stayed still through the rough pressure that Moriarty purposefully placed on it as he bent in, capturing John's lips in his own with rough glee.

In a sudden, John snapped back into his mind, feeling pure anger flow through him. With a brisk shove, he pushed his captor away and ignored the pain that flared up from his healing back and shot-through shoulder. He grabbed the gun from the criminal’s waistband before facing it towards him. "Ahhh, mistake, Johnny boyyyyy." John’s hands were steady, his back against a wall, now.

 

"Such a mistake, darling. Can't even hurt you, now. Need you at full consciousness as your  _ pathetic, cheating, lying, _ little sweetheart tries to save you."

 

The doctor heard the downstairs door creak. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock's knees had been shaking all the way to the hospital. Despite Max's hand covering it, trying to reassure him, he couldn't do anything but worry about not finding John there. Not being able to save his love. And if he did, he was terrified to see what had become of him after months under Moriarty's hand.

 

Max hadn’t even dared to suggest he should give up on finding John. Not once had she tried to keep the detective for himself. They hadn’t had sex in ages- not since John had been taken. But their intimacy, Max moving in at the only place where he would be safe, the place where lonely, worried, mysterious souls had their places, where everyone would be safe. 221B Baker Street. He shared his intimacy with Sherlock, filling it with gentle touches and sweet words. Pure nonsense. Max watched that the detective ate and slept, was by his sides when his expression darkened and the despair rushed through his veins. 

 

Max didn't think he could love someone more than he loved his da’ling. So, when his love meant betraying his boss, the only man he was scared of- he didn't  _ hesitate _ , gun in his pocket even if it was pointless.

 

The hospital. He had been to this place, once. A sting of regret pierced his heart. If he had told Sherlock about it... maybe. Maybe his John's pain wouldn't have lasted that long. Sherlock's heart was a mess as they ran in the corridors, pushed the doors open, seeing things they wanted to forget. And then, after a few bullets sent into the people trying to stop them, the door. 

 

Sherlock hurried inside, but froze when he saw his lover. 

 

He couldn't even call out his name. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked over his shoulder with wide eyes. Sherlock.  _ My Sherlock. _ He quickly turned his attention back to Moriarty as he bit the inside of his right cheek harshly, slightly shaking his head. No- not his. He'd stopped being his before all this even started.  _ Concentrate, John. _ On full alert this time, he aimed the gun steadily at Moriarty before he pulled on the trigger.

 

No recoil. Nothing. The spider grinned, his hand clasped together in glee. "Oh Johnny boy, haven't learnt too much about me with your time here, then. I never get my hands messy,” he winked, “It’s only for show, darling.” John dropped the gun and lunged at the man, knowing that he was going to die.  _ Fuck it. _ John was already dead. He had nothing. He forced his hands around Moriarty's neck even as the consulting criminal took a small knife and began cutting up the skin on the inner side of the man’s hip. He grit his teeth together. The bastard was  _ carving into him.  _

 

The pain was terrible. But he'd had worse. It wasn't until James was finished with his carving and his eyes were rolling up in his head from the lack of oxygen that he was fought back. Jim plunged the knife just over John's iliac crest, forcing the doctor to arch his head back and loosen his pressure slightly. "You bastard." The doctor ripped the knife out of him, uncaring if he died from haemorrhaging again and drove it into the man's neck. James smiled as he felt the blood out of him. "Killed by the man I love-- such a goldfish way to die, isn't it Johnny? There's most definitely a pattern to our pathetic little world." John drove the hilt of the knife in further. "Well- I suppose I should get my hands dirty some time or later-- I  _ am _ the greatest crime lords in the world after all." The spider gripped the knife as he pulled it out with resistance of his own skin- not even bothering to wince- and threw it across the room and at Max's forehead, where it lodged firmly.  _ Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. _ "Sher-" The doctor kept his hand plastered to his own bleeding wounds, clenching his jaw as he crawled over to Max. "No, no, no, no. You can't die. Who's going to take care of my Sherlock? Please, wake up." His words were alien to him. But it didn't matter. 

  
  


Anything for Sherlock.

  
  


Anything for the man John Watson would always love.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Everything happened quickly, too quickly for Sherlock. He entered the room, saw no life in John's eyes anymore, froze. And then, blood. There was blood everywhere, he wanted to hurry to John's side but an invisible strength stopped him. He could no longer move. 

 

……

 

Max, on the other hand, understood everything that was going on. But his inner demons, the sight of Moriarty being killed and the reflex he had learned to never let this man being hurt, the need to stay close to Sherlock so he wouldn't be damaged, and the priority to save John... But John was already saving himself. 

 

He saw himself dying. He saw it in Jim's eyes, and he knew there was no point in praying in a world ruled by him. There was no point in trying to delay his end.

 

He wasn't a good person. He had killed, and even if the last moments of his life were the best one, he knew he was a burden. Sherlock loved the both of them, but could have only one. And he deserved John Watson, over a criminal.

 

Maybe he felt pain.

Or maybe he didn't.

But the next instant, it stopped mattering.

 

…..

 

Sherlock's hands started to tremble, the picture of Max collapsing, eyes emptying of life carved into his brilliant mind. He fell on his knees close to Max, touched his cheek but knew it was over. 

 

Over.

Sherlock grabbed the man's jacket, pulling on it, pain and pain rushing through him. He couldn't speak.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John backed away from the dead man. He stood up and looked at Moriarty. Then at Sherlock. And finally at Max. He felt lifeless again, and not knowing what else to do, John pushed the door open and walked out, still cupping his bleeding torso. He forced his eyes to adjust to the cloudily light outdoors. How long had it been since John had gone anywhere without direct orders from Moriarty? Too many. Way too many. 

 

His shoulder ached in a familiar way, exposed nerves reacting to the humidity. But obviously, it was worse. Three more months until it would “fully” heal. John moved his hand away from his knife-wound, uncaring as he sat down on the dusty road. He looked around, trying to find something. Anything. 

 

Nothing to do. Nothing to live for.

  
  


And for the first time in a long time, John Watson wished for his gun. 

  
  


Just so he could put it up to his head and pull the trigger. Because-  _ that _ . Even that would be something to do. The doctor had his legs criss-crossed on the gravel and his elbows resting on his thighs as he brought his hands up to his head, resting it in them.  _ Need something to do _ . He felt memories spin, wanting nothing more to banish them. 

  
  


This was worse than Afghanistan. 

  
  


This was worse than what Sherlock had done.

  
  


Or even Moriarty.

  
  


This was John Watson, trapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And of course, we all know whose writing graced this piece that would be dreadful if I had written it myself.


	18. Chapter 18

This was John Watson, trapped.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock stayed close to Max for long minutes after John left. Not because he wanted to leave the doctor alone, but he needed to say goodbye to the man who had loved him so much. To their interlaced hands, the baths they’d shared, their tangled limbs on dusty mornings when John had worked a night shift. He needed to say goodbye to their love.

 

But what had it been for?

 

For everything ending into a pool of blood, and an ugly corpse? Carefully, Sherlock removed the knife. If his fingerprints were on the handle, it didn't matter. He threw it away, touched the forehead. Closed the eyelids after a last kiss on his still warm lips. Then Sherlock, automatically, went to Moriarty's side. He checked the man, checking if this time, it was actually over.

 

Sherlock left the room, going to John's side.  He grabbed his arm, and helped him to stand up. "Let's get you cleaned up.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John sat, unacknowledging of Sherlock's steps behind him. He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet but didn't follow his ex-boyfriend. "I'm not coming with you." John's breathing was calm. It was even. It was mediocre.  _ Average. Broken _ . The doctor forced his legs to move in an unknown direction, looking for something. 

 

Moriarty had turned him into a soldier again. Not caring about himself. Taking orders. But Sherlock's- Sherlock's orders could be overlooked. Because Sherlock didn't mean them. He would never have the patience to pull John "back to normal." That was if it was possible. He looked straight in front of him, his blue eyes dull. Boring. Dead. Three months. That's all it had taken for Jim to do this. To torture him with his own sick, twisted "love." With a random, rare spark of curiosity, John pulled his shirt up, looking by the area of his stab wound and at the carving. 

  
  


♥︎ JM ♥︎

  
  


John let his shirt drop back down, comprehending the cuts. It didn't matter. This wasn't his body. He'd been branded and taken apart- Moriarty simply hadn't had the time to put him back together. With an even march, John walked in an unknown direction, towards god-knows-where. And he probably wouldn't be stopped unless someone would stop him. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

A shiver of horror ran through Sherlock's spine, as his mind was forced to slow in order to understand the deep knives marks on John's skin. He saw no point in protesting and trying to force the doctor to follow him. 

 

After all, he had nowhere to go either.

 

So, instead, he started to follow John.  Not too close to him, but not far away either. He wanted to give him time to become adapted to contact, to intimacy- but he wished for the man to become accustomed to the outside environment first. Silently, he walked, following John like John had once followed him.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John walked mindlessly for a few minutes, silence surrounding him for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He looked around, taking in the small grouping of trees, taking in the once familiar scents. Very familiar scents- but there was more than just the bland scent of the trees. He turned around and faced a man behind him. 

 

Human. Detective. Sherlock.

 

Memories filled back in his head as he felt a dull roar in his ears and fire ignite in his eyes. He put a hand against a tree to steady himself as he continued staring. "You-" John forced out the word, voice holding too much emotion to work properly. "You did this." John stalked towards Sherlock, looking up at him with pure hate filtering through his eyes. "Because you couldn't keep your  _ cock _ in your trousers." John accentuated the  _ ck _ in “cock" sharply, wanting to express as much hatred as he felt- though his words didn’t convey  _ half _ the message. He gripped the detective's coat by it's lapels as he pounced on him, tackling the man to the ground and not bothering to wince as he felt his back begin to bleed again, scabs being ripped with the fluid motion. Through the oatmeal jumper he was wearing, it was quite evident. "You made me like this and I will  _ never _ forgive you." He kept the man pinned down underneath him, unable to move his gaze from the pale eyes he was staring into.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock didn't struggle. He deserved everything, every hit, every insults. John was being right, and it was heavy on his heart. But the gaze on him was so filled with  _ hatred _ that fear and despair made him shift a bit. "John. Listen...." His hands were shaking close to John's side, trembling without daring to touch. "We need to bring you to hospital." He winced, thinking about the hospital of Moriarty. "We need to help you. You have to live. Come on, John.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John pushed himself onto his knees, looking up at the cloudy sky, feeling his body fill with anguish. "What the hell does it matter, Sherlock?! Who cares if I live or die?!" The doctor felt no tears. Nothing. Just pure hopelessness. He brought his hands up, looking for something to hold on to. Something to grasp and feel and call his. John had nothing. No one. John gasped as he felt all the weight in the world fall on him. And somehow, it was still all nothing. He looked down feeling his jumper stick to him from both where the knife and pierced deeply through his skin and the lashes on his back. He looked down at his flatmate, unable to breathe. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter if he was breathing or not. The words came out softly. "What do I have to live for, Sherlock? A cheating ex-boyfriend or for a hundred patients that are all going to die anyway?”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

"I care. I care." But John's words fell on Sherlock like thousand of razors lacerating his heart. The detective had no one. With Max dead and John hating him, he was truly alone. But not John. John had still plenty to live for. "You’ll save those hundred lives. There's people that love you. And you will love someone too, someone good, someone who isn't me. But for that, you need to live. If you die, Moriarty will win. If you die..." Sherlock sighed sadly. "I'm begging you. Live.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The doctor interlaced his fingers his fingers through the detective's curly hair, pulling on it harshly as he brought the man's face closer to his own, staring at him for a while before he pressed a kiss to the man's lips. "I hate you. So, so much. And everything you do just ends up trying to kill me." It felt that there was supposed to be a  _ but _ in his statements somewhere, but John didn't know how to incorporate it in.  _ But I still love you. _ Despite how hard John tried- despite how much human Jim had tried to suck out of him, John had and would always love Sherlock. Because he was a mad,  _ idiot _ genius that only ever  _ fucked _ up and even though the doctor wasn’t sure that he’d even  _ try  _ to fix it- he loved the man anyways, because the mad,  _ idiot  _ genius had turned John into a mad,  _ idiot  _ fool. John felt tears spring up to his eyes as thoughts ran through his head, slipping down as he kept his eyes scrunched closed. He pressed, his teeth biting at Sherlock's lip harshly before he pulled away, hurt coursing through him once more. Without another word, John stood. Suicidal behaviour-- mood swings. He put the walls back up, cursing to himself for being vulnerable before he began walking once more, quirking his swollen lip up slightly in dry amusement.

 

"Let him win, then.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John hated him, and still kissed him. John got up, but still wanted to die. And the detective couldn't allow him to do this. He just… he had no other choice and so resorted to the most basic of threats. Blackmail. He got up clumsily, and grabbed John's wrist, his grip hard and unforgiving. "No!" He shouted. "No, you will  _ not _ . You’re not going to!" He couldn't force John to live, and it was absolutely  _ terrifying _ . “Because if you're not alive tomorrow morning. If you're not alive the day after, and the day following this one. I'll kill people." He said, voice oddly quieting. "You know how smart I am. I can solve crimes, therefore, I can commit them.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

He wouldn't. That bastard  _ wouldn't _ . John looked down, biting his own lip for some semblance of calm.  _ "What?" _ The word was strained. John turned to face Sherlock, pulling him to his feet by his coat and pushing him against a tree, twisting his posh shirt in his fist. 

 

John looked at him, practically glowing with anger as he raised his fist and connected it with Sherlock's jaw. "Say that again, you arse! Say it again and you'll be using that clever head of yours to figure out how to plan your funeral after you're dead." John pulled Sherlock towards him before slamming him back into the wood, using his head to forcefully connect with the man's nose. 

 

But he would. John didn't know Sherlock. Not this Sherlock. But still, he loved him- and in truth, could never hurt the man to death. He felt his head spin as he backed up against the trunk of the tree behind him. He breathed heavily as he felt panic set in. He didn't want to live. Not like this. Not for anyone. He didn't want to. But as ever- he wasn't given a choice. John slid down the bark, the roughness rubbing into his bleeding skin. He forced himself to breathe evenly, staring at the ground as he propped his hand over the leg he had raised. His hurt knee was flat on the ground while his other was bent up, giving him a perfect way to drape his hurt shoulder in a rest. "Fine. But if I find that someone's got a bloody scratch on them because of you-" John left the threat in the air, as he looked at Sherlock harshly.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The pain Sherlock felt was very much a relief. It meant John was upset, it meant there was still some fire inside his heart. And if there was fire, it meant he would just need to blow carefully on the flames for them to become destructive fury. "I'm not saying I'll never be caught, but how many years before someone figures it out? How many wasted lives? And it's only if I'm careless, because if I want nobody to ever know, nobody will know.  And I swear to  _ God _ , John. If you let yourself die, I'll kill one person for every day you're missing. Entire families. Whole buildings." He touched his jaw carefully. "I will... Burn. Poison. Strangle. Stab. Shoot. Drown. Bury. I will kill thousand of people if you die." Then, he reached out. "Take my hand. Let's save your life.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John allowed one last glare, filling it with as much repulsion and abhor as he could before he forced himself up to his feet. He didn't take the detective's hand. He knew what it felt like. The calluses from playing the violin as an extreme sport, scars from experiments gone wrong. And yet, under all that, there had been a certain softness that only his Sherlock could have had. The man in front of him wasn't his Sherlock. John sniffed a bit, taking in a deep breath. "Only because people will die. If you think for a  _ moment  _ I want this..." The doctor straightened his back, though he winced this time at the movement. His shoulder was killing him and the stab was bleeding way too much to not require medical assistance. Over that, he felt his knee give out the tiniest of bits as he moved towards Sherlock, limp evident enough for the ever-observing detective. "Well? Lead the way.”

-x-x-x-x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Camille wrote this with me because she is amazing and *cough* put up with my terribly, horribly late replies because she is wonderful.


	19. Chapter 19

Over that, he felt his knee give out the tiniest of bits as he moved towards Sherlock, limp evident enough for the ever-observing detective. "Well? Lead the way.”  
-x-x-x-x

Sherlock didn't do this so that John would love him. He knew it was impossible, he no longer deserved the doctor. Did he ever deserve him? He nodded twice before starting to walk, the action neither a confirmation nor a dismissal. There was an actual hospital not so far from the fake one, and Sherlock believed John could make it. He was bleeding much, but not quickly enough for him to go into shock before doctors could fix him. "I'm sorry I didn't manage to find you sooner.”

-x-x-x-x

Most people thought that doctors made the worst patients. Not John Watson. Even before he'd been tortured, broken, etc, etc. John Watson had been a model patient. When his shoulder had been shot through the first time, he sat in his army medic room of his base and allowed for himself to be doped up and away from the pain. He had taken his medication properly. All because he knew how annoying terrible patients were. This time- it was for a different reason. John allowed himself to be wheeled away into emergency care, forced to take x-rays, and sat through all the tests simply because it gave him something to do. He allowed his wounds to be stitched up and his back to be bandaged after having his shoulder checked. He laid dutifully after it all, staring up at the bland, white ceiling as Sherlock sat beside him on a boring, cushioned, plastic chair. He had ignored Sherlock's statement and had simply followed the man, not having anything else to do.

Oh, there was that threat of Sherlock turning into a serial killer as well, but to be fair, hadn't that always been there?

"I don't care." John shrugged to himself, "I don't care that you didn't find me sooner. Because I would've died in there." He took a moment, thinking quietly. "Maybe I would've preferred that you hadn't found me. It was nice. He had knives and guns all around. Would've taken me absolutely nothing to run a blade in my heart or pull the trigger at my temple.”

-x-x-x-x

Sherlock had always hated hospitals. He hated the scent of it, and the knowledge of the pain, filling every room. But despite everything, he stayed. For John. He was safe, and now that the adrenaline had faded away... Nothing was left but the loss of the two men he loved the most. "If you have been killed there, you know what would have happened. A case worse than Jack the Ripper. A case of never ending deaths." He hated saying this, but it was the only way he could protect John's life for now. "You have friends, many friends. You are loved. Don't die.”

-x-x-x-x

John smirked sadly and rolled his eyes before he closed them. As if. As if there was anyone to love him. To like him. To care for him. Hell, there wasn't anyone for him to love, to like, or to care for. "No- you wouldn't have. You don't get off on committing murders." He sniffed a bit, eyes tearing up as his bandaged back faced Sherlock. His words were much quieter when he opened his mouth again. "Just get off on hurting people." He pushed the sidebar with the morphine amount indication to high as he settled back and for the first time since leaving Sherlock, he felt safe enough to sleep.

-x-x-x-x

Sherlock didn't leave the room. He kept staring to John, heartbroken by his words. He thought about Max, about the knife deeply buried into his forehead. About his life, when he was still warm and alive.

Sherlock had caused all this. It was his fault. But if the detective left, if he didn’t take up the bad-guy in the game by pretending he’d kill in the if so situation, the doctor would see no point in staying alive. And if there was one thing Sherlock could never be able to take, it was John's death.

He could grieve and move on after Max, even if it was going to be horribly painful. But not for John. For John, he'd actually go mad with pain, and he would possibly go through with his “faux” threat to kill. Including himself.

-x-x-x-x

John slept restlessly, despite the drugs that were running through him. He shifted, head moving from time to side and limbs slowly and resistantly flailing. Moriarty, Sherlock, Max. He felt the sheen of sweat forming over his forehead as he moaned silently, eyes scrunched together. Mistake. Sleeping was a mistake. John had nightmares combined with the war, Moriarty grinning, leaning over him as their bodies pressed together unwillingly, John’s wounded back pressing into the desert sand as a line of men waited to take the soldier’s arse . He the groans were louder, now, the smallest of tears running behind his eyes. He was trapped in his head once more, and it felt as if he wasn’t ever getting out again.

-x-x-x-x

Sherlock immediately startled when he heard John's whimpers. A nightmare, obviously. "...Shht. Hush." He said in what he hoped was a soothing way. "Hush, John. You're safe. You're perfect. You're alright. Relax." He paused. "Shht. Nobody will ever hurt you. You are safe." He reached out and tentatively took his hand in his own. "You are the most brave, the most amazing man in the world, and you are safe, I promise.”

-x-x-x-x

John’s mind filled with Sherlock’s familiar voice. The same voice that had coaxed him through nightmares before. He exhaled slowly, unconsciously as he calmed. Instead, his dreams filled with Sherlock. Baking. John smiled, seeing the small strip of flour that he’d managed to get on his ridiculously high cheekbones. He watched himself move closer and use his thumb to wipe it away before playfully smacking the man. “I though chemists were supposed to have steady hands and all.” He watched himself check on the pastry while Sherlock whisked another batch. He sighed, content as he turned in his sleep, facing Sherlock unknowingly as he did so, the smallest, serenest of smiles gracing his face.

-x-x-x-x

The smile on John's face was beautiful. Sherlock leaned over, just breathing close to them. He didn't kiss the man, wouldn't do this without his consent, not after everything that had happened between them, not while knowing John no longer loved him. But feeling his breathing, his heart beating. It was beautiful. Sherlock stepped back after a while, pulling the blanket a bit higher, just as John had done when The Woman had drugged him- and for the many nights they’d shared together after John had finally figured out that he was not not gay. He kept talking softly, saying nonsense, creating fakes days from actual memories he had. He sat there, next to John's bed, watching the man, unable to look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written with Camille--who is the most brilliant contradiction i've ever met.
> 
> *throws roses at her*


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written with Camille, who is a terrible influence but I'm addicted to her like an anarchist is to taking down a government. (Inside joke, no one worry, pls.)
> 
> Oh, and tell me if you want shorter updates, this one's nearly 3000 words. Personally, I find it very difficult to sit through that, but it's been so long since I updated (because i'm terrible, duh) and you deserve a treat.

He kept talking softly, saying nonsense, creating fakes days from actual memories he had. He sat there, next to John's bed, watching the man, unable to look away.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John woke hours later. His doctor had frowned at the level of morphine, but John had only looked up at him, eyes scarily blank. His shoulder’s stitches were changed and his back was rebandaged. He looked at Sherlock, who sat watching John. Undoubtedly, the ex-army man was surprised. Sherlock had  _ stayed?  _ Without losing himself to his mind palace or conducting some inane  _ experiment?  _

 

John refused to think of what the simple act meant. John loved (but despised) Sherlock- and Sherlock didn’t love John at all. It was what it was. The doctor took a seat by the hospital bed John was currently in, asking about medical history before clearing his throat. “The police would like to talk to you. You’re physically able, but either way, they say that the choice is up to you.” John looked down at himself, hate filing through him. It was a familiar hate that felt as if it was constantly screaming in the back of his head. It was none other than the same self hatred that had plagued him before he’d met Sherlock. And it was back to torture him after. John closed his eyes briefly, knowing that no- he couldn’t. He couldn’t talk about what had happened. Hell, he couldn’t even admit it to himself, how would he admit it to another? The broken man’s doctor took the silence as an answer of “no,” nodding before he walked back out of the room. John closed his eyes- feeling pain rise through his torso and down from his memories, all filtering into his heart. Wordlessly, he looked at Sherlock in a desperate attempt to ground himself.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock smiled to John. A gentle, careful smile. "It's okay. It's going to be okay." He whispered, before reaching out, offering a possibility for the doctor to take his hand if needed. "You don't need to talk about it to me. But you can, if you want to. If not, I'm still here." He took a deep breath. "I know things seem absolutely terrible right now, and they are. I won't deny that. Things  _ are _ terrible. But you are alive, and that's the most important, even if it doesn't feel like it. And...." He paused. "A tattoo. We'll get you a tattoo to cover yours scars." Sherlock smiled. "John Rock N'Roll Watson.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked away from Sherlock, feeling a hint of amusement, but even that was overpowered by complete annoyance and anger. Sherlock had  _ started this _ . He’d practically thrown John to the dogs as he claimed the treat of Max for himself in return. John took in a breath, forcing himself to calm down. He was in a hospital, for goodness sake, a place to heal-- not give your idiot, bastard ex-boyfriend another bloody nose. He opened his mouth, face in a sneer as he scowled out, “Shut. Up. Sherlock.” This man was a pure idiot. Still, John reached out, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own shaky ones and holding it tightly. He took in another breath, filling his blood with oxygen, hoping that the elevated supply would knock some semblance of neutrality. Neutrality. Soldier. John felt the expression drop off his face as his eyes lost its emotion, though he kept clutching the detective’s hand. Soldier. Moriarty. The doctor stared straight ahead, eyes on Sherlock but none of the recognition lined his eyes anymore, his mind filled with overwhelming emptiness as he snapped into what James had turned him into. His body went on lockdown as he sat still, ready to react to anything and everything.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

When John seemed to get upset, Sherlock stopped talking. He looked to his hands for a long while, silently, observing how his fingers were moving, watching the fingerprints slightly damaged. He had blood on his hands. He had touched Max's corpse, grabbed his jacket, suffering his loss. But he had to focus on the present. He wasn't allowed to dwell on the past, as John's gaze was lost. "...Hey." He whispered, cupping the doctor's hand with his own other one, gentle in his touches. "Look into my eyes. And recite the periodic table of elements. Focus for me, John.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

In his mind's eye, John was tied up once more, hands bound to the wall and legs spread- making his body stretch out into an "X." It was the third week of the first month. Around the time that John had given up. He looked ahead, across the room at Moriarty. His vision was painted in red with pain. 

"Oh  _ Johnnnnny Boyyyy _ ...." The words resonated in his head. He didn't bother flinching as a knife embedded itself beside his head. He had flinched. Once. Twice. But the third time, John hadn't bothered, knowing that Moriarty was simply enjoying the small movements. Besides, it would be over sooner if he stayed still. John watched his memory of himself bleed, but also quietly move his lips. That hadn’t happened when Moriarty had tortured him. In fact, John strictly remembering that he would keep his mouth closed when the consulting criminal threw knives.  _ Lithium, Beryllium, Boron.  _ The periodic table? John watched himself smile, even though he was bloody, bruised, and carved. This was... silly. His eyes focused on the wall, bringing himself back to the present as he realized his lips were moving- not just the John Watson that was in his memories but also in real life.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock smiled when he saw John's eyes focusing on the here and now. His face was beautiful, despite the pain, the war, the tortures, this man survived. And there was nothing that Sherlock wanted more than making him happy. If it meant he would have to sacrifice his own happiness to this quest, it wouldn't make change his decision. But Sherlock knew his happiness was John's. "Hey... Here. I'm here. Everything is fine. I promise you.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

A few days later, the doctor walked checked up on John, holding a clipboard in his hand and a fake smile. It was obvious that Mycroft had intervened, telling the doctor either sod off or the whole story. John didn’t care, simply listening to orders for medication intake. And then the happy words that any patient would be joyous to hear. "Well, Dr Watson- you're free to go, now." The words registered slowly in John's constantly preoccupied brain. He was given all his belongings back, and his mobile had somehow found its way to them and then to him. He didn't acknowledge anyone as he left the hospital, freezing as soon as he stepped foot outside. 

 

London. 

 

He re-observed all the moving traffic and the people that dodged the man in their haste to get to their destinations. This was- home. But it felt all wrong. The doctor hailed a cab, feeling his shoulder duly ache and sat down in it, his sore, but scarring back scrape lightly against the soft seats. Sherlock sat beside him, but the doctor simply wanted nothing to do with the man and distanced himself as much as he could, containing himself from simply reaching over and snapping his neck. He looked outside quietly, restlessly bobbing his right foot up and down.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Finally. Finally, they were at home. Sherlock threw himself in the armchair, sighing. He had missed his flat, the walls, even the ceiling and its weird yellow color. But sadly, John wasn't back at home. He wasn't the same man who was living here a few months ago. It had been almost a year since all this had happened to them. And nothing seemed to actually getting better. "Do you want tea?”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John didn't walk into the flat. He stood outside and stared in, taking in details. Only these were not simple details. These details were memories engraved strongly into his head. The  _ before  _ to all this. The cause, the reason. The start of it. John stood frozen as he looked dully at the kitchen table, his blue eyes looking at the table, watching Max as he pounded into Sherlock when John had barged in, drawing out a particularly shameful moan. He looked to the sofa, their swollen lips and Sherlock's guilt-ridden face. Then the ground, where the bag of lovingly-bought biscuits had been dumped. 

 

It wasn't that John didn't want to walk into the flat. It was that he couldn't. 

 

"Oh god," he murmured to himself, images of Max and Sherlock in what used to be John's and Sherlock's bedroom. He backed away from the door, slowly- as if he was being hunted and that he would be detected and killed if he moved too fast. "I can't do this," John kept his voice low, not having the energy to speak up. What did it matter? He was talking to himself, after all, there was no one else to listen to him except for memories.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock felt his heart being broken into his chest. He knew what John was thinking about. He knew how painful it was for him, but the memories were difficult to bear on his side too. Max was dead. He could never feel his strong arms against his shivering skin again. And John no longer loved him. He was alone. "We could move the furniture. Buy new ones. What would you like?" He asked absently. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

"John! Oh, where've you been! We've all been so worried! Where's that nice lad, Max?" John felt himself collapse emotionally, relief filing through him as he listened to the familiar voice. He chose to ignore the specifics of words that his landlady was spouting out. The doctor cut off her rant abruptly as he raised one hand and pulled her into an embrace, feeling lovingly vulnerable as he felt his mother figure beside him. "Oh! Alright, you're alright, John." The woman ran her fingers over the short man's head, affectionately whispering calming words interlaced with worry and surprise. He pulled back, a sad smile painting his face. "Hello, Mrs Hudson." She looked up at him, evident confusion in her eyes, but she played along, her impulses and parental instincts guiding her to. "Come down for some biscuits, dear." She paused, looking him up and down, reading how subtly tired and hurt John was. "On second thought, go take a seat inside, i'll bring up a tray." Mrs H rushed downstairs, nearly flailing with her need to take care of her tenants. John momentarily slipped into his past-self, smiling to himself as he absentmindedly and instinctively walked in, his limp gone for seconds as he sat in his armchair, facing the detective, half expecting him to go on a rant of how the murderer was so obviously the victim of their Cluedo game. 

And his smile fell, fully looking at Sherlock. The small bruise from John's punch days ago. Days ago- he had been tortured. John looked down, scared to look anywhere anymore.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock barely dared to look at Mrs.Hudson. It was just a reminding of their lives from before. But for a second, a tiny second, a too quickly wasted away second... He saw John happy. And he imagined things could get better, like before. But Mrs.Hudson left, and with her, the hope. 

 

"We need to talk." The detective whispered, glancing to the door and watching for their landlady. "We need to... To aim for something. I'm here for you, will always be. But I need to know. I need to know if you still..." His fingers tapped against his knee. "Do you love me? As a lover, as a friend, or just as a flatmate. Do you want me in your life? Would you prefer to move out, or would you like to see me leave? Please, John- you must tell me. Your silence is unbearable.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The ex-army man didn’t relax into his chair again, on guard and alert, protecting himself from anything and Sherlock. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to be here. He was supposed to be dead. He had supposed to have been times many times over, now- but nonetheless, here he was, alive and unwilling to be. He forced his voice to remain steady, attempting to force any semblance of calm, but he was more sure that it came out to be a growl. “I hate you.” Plain and simple. Too easy for Sherlock’s complicated mind to understand, probably. He kept his breathing even, looking at the man in front of him. “Even though you’re the only one that can fix me... I can’t live like this.” He snorted to himself. “Hell- like I even  _ want  _ to live, I’ll just- I’ll be moved out within a day or so.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

I hate you. _ I hate you. _ The three words were too loud in his mind, and they came back from that day, under the trees. But Sherlock hadn't understand what they had meant there because of the adrenaline and because John had kissed him just after.

 

The detective cleared his throat, holding his tears back. "You know what will happen if you stop to being alive, John.” He simply said. Maybe this threat wouldn't work forever, but in the meantime, John could figure out a new way to live. A reason. A purpose. "I love you. I will always do, but you can hate me. You can despise me, I just want you to be alive.”

 

-x-x-x-x

"How terribly human you are, Sherlock." The doctor heard footsteps padding up quickly to the flat. "Yoohoo, boys! I've brought biscuits!" John forced himself not to pounce on Sherlock, unwilling to disrupt any sort of "cheer" that Mrs Hudson would bring in. They were both in hell- they didn't want to drag their loving landlady in. This time, the doctor didn't smile at her and simply stared out the window. It was evident to her that there was ridiculously high tension, and other than that- there were ridiculously high stakes. This was a game after all. Chess. And Sherlock and John moved themselves on the chessboard, not knowing how to go back to how they'd been- king and king, side-by-side. They were now just simply pawns, trying their best not to feel as stupid and insignificant as they were. 

 

Mrs Hudson, to her credit left after saying, "Oh, it's alright you two- domestics happen to the best of us." She walked back downstairs, footsteps retreating. John couldn't even muster a small smile. His heart was fluctuating between beating erratically and beating shallowly- mimicking the way that John fluctuated between his extremely rare moments of being John Watson and his overpowering state of being the man Moriarty took apart. 

 

He stood up and pulled his coat lightly around himself, his head swarming with a mixture of wanting to pull the gun on himself or on Sherlock. Perhaps he'd go hunt the rest of Moriarty's men. The spider had briefly taken their help in breaking him. It would give the soldier something to do. He walked upstairs to retrieve his gun and took minutes cleaning it and setting it up. He walked back downstairs, magazine of bullets clicking into place before he tucked it into his waistband.

"Don't follow me- could be dangerous." He walked out the door, down the stairs, heart filling with ice as it froze deeply in his chest. Though, John did have to give it credit. With its best efforts, it was beating harshly, trying to free itself from its ice-formed prison and force the doctor to run back to Sherlock and connect their lips together. Good thing Moriarty had taught John how to think with his head and not his heart- the opposite of what Sherlock had taught.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock craved to get up and run after John. He wanted to follow him, grab his wrist and kiss his lips. He wanted to hold the man in his arms, beg him to work with him to resume their lives, to build their love up again. But he didn't. Instead he went to his room, grabbing the ring. He didn't slid it on his finger, like he wanted to. He put it on the lower table, and left the room.

He felt empty inside as he climbed up the stairs to John's room. He observed the dusty room before throwing himself in the bed.

 

He bit down the cushion and screamed.

 

-x-x-x-x


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorryyy for the late upddattesss. Camille is awesomeeee. We should all pray for frannnceee.

He felt empty inside as he climbed up the stairs to John's room. He observed the dusty room before throwing himself in the bed.

 

He bit down the cushion and screamed.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John hailed a taxi, climbing into it and slightly adjusting himself as he felt his firearm poke into his back. He leant back, comfortable with the familiar but still very much on guard. In truth, the doctor was surprised that Sherlock had let him go at all and not further to threaten to fall into his "rumoured" career as a serial killer. This was a suicide mission. There was absolutely no way that John would come out of this alive. It was stupid, idiotic, and fucking  _ suicidal-  _ but what was the new John Watson if not that? John paid the cab at the edge of the woods, explaining to the driver that he was simply going for a hike- ignoring the man's deepening frown once he noticed that he didn't look the part of his lie. John smiled fakely before turning his back and facing the trees, waiting until the man drove off before he walked into the woods, easily remembering the way to the building just as he did every other fine, minor detail. "Oh, so  _ you're _ John Watson? To be fair, I was thinking you'd be... taller." The voice came from a few trees on ahead, a small legion of men surrounding the blonde in front.

"Sebastian Moran. You're a dead man." The rifleman smiled, his teeth on display and scarred face moving.

"Scarred- but not dead. Unlike you, Watson. You're both scarred- and you're..." The man looked the doctor up and down, shrugging slightly before continuing, "practically dead." 

John evened out his gaze, slipping his hand quickly to his waistband and drawing out his gun, positioning himself and aiming at the man. "I can change that first bit, then."

"Can't change the second, though." John ducked as he heard a bullet whizz over him, quickly rolling over and onto his good knee as he fired as quickly as possible at the small army approaching him. "No hard feelings, Watson! Just here to make sure you're  _ completely  _ dead." The words were blacked out by the pounding in John's head, blood rushing through his head his eyes dilated with adrenaline. “Though, then again, it’s  _ somewhat  _ personal, I guess- you did kill the only man I ever loved." He only had a few meters until he would be completely surrounded by the contingent. That'd work. It'd give him a perfect amount of time to plan and aim for Sebastian. Perfect to kill down the last resort to the rest of the sleeper cells that had worked for Moriarty.

Perfect to take down what Sherlock had left of the spider’s web.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Dangerous. Sherlock had no idea of what John meant, and at first, he imagined his doctor was being sarcastic, reminding in a bitter way that day when he followed Sherlock for the first time. More he thought about that though, more it seemed wrong. He had a bad feeling, something sitting in his gut and it didn’t seem that it was going to leave anytime soon.

And as helpless as he was, there was only one person able to help. 

His brother didn't make comments, knowing Sherlock was suffering enough already. He promised to send someone to follow him discreetly, and to protect him, if needed.

Sherlock wasn't reassured but it was the most he could do. He rubbed his eyes, drying his tears and cooked. He cooked, not for himself because he knew he wouldn't eat, not for John because he knew the man wouldn't eat either even if Sherlock pretended it was Mrs.Hudson who did this. He cooked for Max.

 

Because Max had always tried his best all theses months to create a home. Because Max had loved Sherlock.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John had cut and sliced, shot and ducked- all if he was in war against the undead. Men and women fell right and left before retaliating with their own punches and weapons in attempt to hurt the doctor. Sebastian was so close. Only about two or three people away.

And then John found himself tackled to the ground.

The woman above him kept her mouth grim while she tried to force a knife into John's stomach- only being stopped by the way the doctor gripped the blade harshly, his hand bleeding from the deep incision the pressure made. He groaned lightly as he felt determination ignite further in his eyes, bucking his hips to throw her off before he shot a bullet into her foot. The doctor stood, running towards Sebastian, making it steps before he found himself held back by another man, nearly in a bear hug. It didn't matter. Right now, John had a neat shot and Sebastian was simply grinning, watching the man holding John bring up his own illegal firearm and brace it to the doctor’s head. That was until the man saw the gun pointed straight at him. John took aim and pulled the trigger, relaxing as he heard the bullet cut through the man's skull. John closed his eyes, allowing for the man who had him pinned to do practically anything. Probably kill him. He allowed himself to go limp, slouching over in his arms. 

Before he found himself falling.

"John Watson. Please, come with me."

 

Anthea? What the bloody fuck. The woman's voice rang clearly over the miniature battleground, Mycroft's men killing down the rest of the attackers. 

"Absolutely not," John whispered the words to himself before he took off running, ignoring his wounds. A whoosh of air ran by him and the doctor found himself drowsy. Belatedly, he raised his hand up to his neck, feeling for the mechanism that had caused his sudden fatigue. Tranquilizer.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Three cups of tea. Three plates, three forks, but nobody eating. One message of Mycroft, and a relief as Sherlock learned John was finally safe. Two armchairs that the detective could barely look at without crying, and one ring, left on the table, visible as the constant reminder of the happiness he had lost.

Sherlock hadn't made a choice. He hadn't decided to follow a path over an another one. He had loved John, and he had loved Max. He still did, and it was nowhere close to being a choice, even now. It was feelings. Feelings weren’t a choice, they don't bend into the “wants and wishes” that one would have.

Love was a need. Sherlock sat down in his armchair, like he was when John left the flat, and he grabbed his violin. He started to play his sad, desperate music.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John found himself at the back of a familiar car, hand in bandage and stitches, wounds cleaned- all of it done. In fact, he was in a new jumper and new jeans. The doctor groaned, his head aching as he felt the small movement and bumps on the road reverberate through his skull. "What the bloody-" The man opened his eyes, looking on the seat across from and noticing the British Govnt's eyes on him. "Ah- doctor. Hello there. Good to know you've..." The man trailed off, a sneer coating his face. "Well, as you are aware, i've already given you the entire  _ if you hurt my brother _ speech- but instead, I should've given him the  _ if you hurt your flatmate _ speech- though to be fair, I didn’t know that such a thing existed before you came along.” The taller man sniffed, checking at his watch as the car pulled over. "Go on before he decides he needs some chemical relief. The man needs his doctor." 

 

John blinked to clear his vision before staring at Mycroft. He moved closer to him, seemingly unassuming before he pulled back and connected his head to the man's nose and getting out of the car without hesitation- leaving the elder Holmes speechless and with a bloody nose. He opened the door to 221B, Mrs Hudson not bothering to poke her head out this time as he made his way up the stairs, dreading each and every second he was and would have to live. That was supposed to have  _ worked _ . But now- he was on house arrest. At least picking up a rivalry between a man who owns a navy would count something of a danger to his life. John stared at the flat's door for a few seconds, banishing memories that would immediately perk up. His gun shifted slightly in his waistband as he pushed the door open, looking down as he began to turn towards the stairs that would rise up to his room. He didn't want to see anything. Not the wallpaper. Not the armchairs. And most definitely the cooking. It was worse, really. The desperate violin music that continued as he entered the room, the smell of one of John's recipes swirling in the air.

 

The man chuckled to himself ironically. This Max lad had been good for Sherlock if the detective had actually bothered to remember John's recipe. The doctor felt anger run through him as he imagined the two of them eating their dinner together- something that past John would have  _ paid  _ for Sherlock to do. He ambled to the stairs, feeling tears prick at his eyes from a life of nothing more than pure torture.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Behind the music coming from his violin, Sherlock heard the hesitation in John's footsteps. Then he heard him going straight to the stairs. At least, he was safe, now and later as Baker Street was most likely to be watched by his brother on a daily basis.

 

The music got lower, almost lazily, cut off by moments of enormous despair, and then it was quick, shattered notes. It could have lasted forever if Max hadn't met Sherlock. Or if he hadn't died. The detective looked up to the ring on the table, singular tears streaking down his beautiful eyes.

John collapsed as soon as he managed to close the door of his room. His legs gave out and he didn't bother putting his hand out to steady himself. Why did it matter? The doctor pulled himself into a sitting position, back again wall beside the door and his head in his hands.  _ Mary wouldn't want this from you, John. _ The doctor's already-there tears began to run over the sides of his face, hurt, anger, and pure confusion running through him. He had no one. His wife was killed. His best mate- John shuddered lightly in anger as he remembered all that Sherlock had done. 

He threw his head back and raised his forearm to his mouth and  _ screamed _ trying his best to stifle the sounds. The vibrations came from a low in John's stomach, gliding over his broken, barely-beating heart. His scream turned into hiccups and the hiccups turned into a shallow cry.  _ Why? Why him?  _ Images of a smiling Mary flickered over his eyes, the wavy smile that she'd given him when she'd died. "Oh god, Mary- oh god, oh god- I'm so lost, sweetheart- you have to help me.” The ex-army man's voice broke, "I need you so much, just come back to me,  _ please _ ." The tears glided down John's hand, seeping slightly into his bandage and burning at him as if to remind him that he  _ had  _ to be alive and that no matter what he'd do, he'd always be in pain.

-x-x-x-x

Sherlock only stopped to play when his fingers were raw and painful. There was blood on the strings, just a few droplet that he wiped off with his sleeve. It would be so easy to sooth his pain. His fingers were trembling from anticipation, from the memory of that high he could so easily reach. His mind made him wonder why he had even given up on it, though he knew why. 

Because eventually, it only made the pain worse. 

But now, he couldn't see how it could be worse. Sherlock pushed his violin away and started to pace nervously in the living-room, scratching his arms, his cheeks, scratching to try to ignore the itching inside him. All in vain, of course.

He just needed a few minutes. Just once, the sting of the needle, and then, nothing but bliss. 

He left the living-room and sat down against John's door.

 

Silently, simply to feel close to the doctor. 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVERYONE WHO STILL READS THIS, IF YOU WANT UPDATES, COMMENT, DEMAND FOR THEM.
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> OTHERWISE, THANK MY AMAZING CO-WRITER CAMILLE AND FRIEND FOR WHOOPING MY ASS IN LINE AND REMINDING ME TO UPDATE BECAUSE I TRULY AM TERRIBLE.
> 
> And of course, we all thank her for writing with me because this would be shit otherwise. 
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> And. Thank you for all the wonderful, beautiful comments. Thank you for reading and spending your time on this ride of an rp.

He left the living-room and sat down against John's door. 

Silently, just to feel close to the doctor. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John heard the door creak slightly, extra weight being added on top of it. The doctor had managed to doze off slightly but never allowed himself to full unconsciousness- not knowing what he might do if he wasn't actively making a decision in his mind. He sighed, resting his head on the wall, Sherlock's probably doing the same on the other side. He got up and walked over to his shelves, pulling out a small box that had once held the velvet case with a breathtaking ring inside it- what he'd so stupidly and  _ selfishly  _ bought. Now it held dog tags and taken-apart blades from his razor. The scars of their past had faded long before, blending into John's tanned skin in such a way that even Sherlock hadn’t deduced of their existence. He brought up the cool metal to his wrist and pressed in slightly, a not-so-thin line being drawn out. He threw the box and blade away from himself before he could go any further, effectively stopping the line had made midway across his wrist. 

 

Sherlock had broken everything. Even John's strengthened determination to fight off anything. To keep a promise to himself. No matter what Sherlock did to fix anything, he always broke all in the end.

 

-x-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock's head was resting against the door, wanting nothing more than to be able to slide between the atoms of the door and join John, wrapping his arms around him, and simply hold the doctor. Sherlock wanted to take away his pain, throw it out of the window, and just breath against his lover's skin. Sherlock waited to erase every memory, all the the hardship, all of what had happened. He had cheated on his John, and now- now they were destroyed. Sherlock had caused this.

He kept his head in his hands, pulling on his curls. "I'd give anything for you, John." The detective said, the words leaving him without his consent. "Ask me anything. Take anything from me. I'd give it to you. Hurt me in horrible ways, and I'd take it. I'd accept it. But please. Stop being unhappy...." His voice died in his throat. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The doctor stared at his wrist, watching the red irritation of skin surround the cut as liquid rose out of it and over the sides. This was good. Any part of him he could lose or throw away- he would. Especially anything that kept him  _ alive _ . John didn’t bother cleaning up the blood or to stop it from dripping onto his jeans. It didn’t matter. Really, nothing did. He closed his eyes as he heard Sherlock’s voice on the other side, how begging and broken it was. No matter- John was worse. Because Sherlock could move on. He could find someone else. Anyone he ever wanted. 

 

And John would just be John in his comfy jumpers and broken everything.

 

If only it was as easy to hurt Sherlock like Sherlock had hurt him. He needed this to stop. John opened his eyes as the familiar thought brought back memories. Memories of torture- what Moriarty had done to break him. It left him gasping. Without thinking, John stood walking his way away from the unlocked door and over to where he’d thrown the blades and pulling them against his skin, forcing the memories out. Line after line, all the red intermingling and staining John’s jumper. His gasps worsened as his number increased and he found the ground around him unsteady. Dizzy. But he hadn’t lost enough blood for it to be  _ that _ .

 

His bleeding right arm and his bloody left hand gripped for the bed-frame as he slid down it. John pulled his knees to his chest, pressing his head to his knees, his arm most likely leaving lines of red as they still bled- as his blue eyes turned dark with tears and panic, his gasps turned into sobs- messy, wet, and most definitely loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock's heart sunk into his ribcage when he heard John’s crying. But he couldn't enter. He refused to bother him more than he already did. He should have left and went to his room, should have shut up. But he couldn't. His words kept coming. "I love you. You have every right to hate me, but you could never stop me from loving you. And if I could.. I know me being in pain doesn't make it better for you, but there's no pain in the world that I wouldn't take if it meant you felt at least a bit better. I'd do  _ anything _ . I'd sacrifice anything to see you smile. Because... Because despite everything, you are the only one I love that much. The only one i’d ever die and kill for.“

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John closed his eyes, Sherlock’s words feeling as if they were purposefully stabbing him over the heart. The man’s voice brought back memories- it was the same voice he’d used on top of the building as he looked down at John, leaving him a “letter” before he jumped off. It wasn’t by any means rational, but the doctor felt as if he was looking up, the sky bright in his eyes despite the lousy nature of the day. John looked up, his eyes still closed, trapped in his own mind as he reached his hand out to the Sherlock on top of the building. “Sher-“ his voice cracked the first time, caught in his throat with renewed dread. “Sherlock, Sherlock-“ the volume of his words grew louder, panic running through him, wanting to prevent the man from jumping in his mind’s eye, “Sherlock! Please, come down- you can’t do this!” The doctor threw his hands out, blood running down his arm at the angle, uncaring as they dripped into the carpet.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock bursted in. John was calling his name, with a terrified voice and he couldn't help but entering and check on his state. What he saw made him froze. Blood. Blood, everywhere. "No, no, no...." He said, hurrying close to John and checking his injuries. "God, John... No, don't... Please, please..." He begged as he ripped his shirt off and started to bandage the injuries in an awkward way. It was better than nothing. “Up you come, we’re going to the bathroom- we’re going to clean you up, come on, John.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John shakily followed the man, uncaring of where they were going. As long as the same familiar, safe smell surrounded him like it did now, John would be fine. His Sherlock wasn’t atop a building anymore- instead, he was in bed next to him, the doctor looking down at his boyfriend with a certain fondness that only John Watson could have for Sherlock Holmes. His eyes were glossy, lost in his dreams as they prevented a focused gaze, only managing to follow the Sherlock in front of him into the bathroom. John being sat on the edge of the bathtub as the tall man worked around in a hurry. 

 

What a ridiculous man. Why was he rushing? John was happy, dreaming- yes, but happy and the man busting around couldn’t see that calm.

  
In his mind’s eye, Sherlock shifted lightly, curls in a wonderful mess around his head, perfect and eternal. Through John’s endorphin high, he felt a state of quiet. Of nice, calm, simple  _ peace _ . He used his left hand and pressed into his left, increasing the pain as he had done so before he’d gone off to the war. It was familiar. Routine. Cuts. Blood. Press. Clean. Hide. The doctor increased the pressure against them, uncaring of the way the bandaged gash from the knife fight with Sebastian’s men began becoming bloody again. Didn’t matter. Nothing truly ever did. And if John could chose to live in the bliss of his daydream forever- he truly would.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written with Camille, who reminds me of imperfection's perfection.
> 
> And for you, Angelique_Qrow, because you had the guts to ask! *hugs* Thank you.

Didn’t matter. Nothing truly ever did. And if John could chose to live in the bliss of his daydream forever- he truly would.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock noticed it. The bandage, new, covering a wound he couldn't see. Probably while John had left the flat- before Mycroft saved him. "What happened?" He asked softly, absently, as he cleaned his John's injuries and bandaged them with proper bandages, this time.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John frowned slightly as his hand was drawn away, hissing lightly in the change of pressure. The high had worn off, and now, John was left to hide his cuts for the rest of all time until they faded and try his best not to itch them in between. Oh  _ brilliant _ . John felt the anger course through him while he looked at his arm, disappointed and disgusted all the same.  _ Couldn’t even take a small little cheat, could you, Johnny? I’ve got you all twisted and tied and Sherlock’ll never be able to fix you- that is if he sticks around to try.  _ Moriarty’s voice rang through his mind, filling his head. He looked straight ahead, reverting back into his soulless state. With cold, harsh words, he said, “I got bored.” That was an explanation for the gash across his palm, it was better leaving the reason for his self harming out of the detective’s knowledge. God knew what Sherlock could do to John with anything that the doctor allowed him to know. He stood up, planning to limp back to his room.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock shook his head. "No, you didn’t- that wasn’t why.“ He pushed on John's shoulder firmly, forcing him to sit down again. "I didn't finish. And we both prefer to do it at home, than by calling an ambulance, don't we?" The life he had seen in John's eyes had faded away. Again. So, Sherlock spoke even softer. "I meant every word I said. I can't bear to see you in pain. While you were…. there. I never stopped looking for you. Not once I gave up.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Through the monotone that John was encompassed in, Sherlock’s words inspired a sharp spear of sarcastic glee. A sneer began to form on his face before John pushed it away. It didn’t matter. He was a soldier. Soldiers didn’t care what attackers did to torture them and drive information out from them. 

 

He sat still, not even wincing as Sherlock pushed on skin next to his gunshot wound. The scar would now only prove to be a reminder of what James had done and not the memories of an honorable bullet from war running through him. John looked at the bathroom tile, watching the scene of Max washing up Sherlock flash over his eyes. He couldn’t do it. Not here. Not now. And most likely never. Nonetheless, John sat. Because  _ to hell what happened to him. _

 

“You’re not human, don’t pretend to be, Sherlock,” and with that, John pressed hardest against his cuts, loving the way that they forced him to wince when nothing else could. His knuckles turned white from hard he was pushing his hand into his bandaged skin. Human. John Watson was simply a human who had had his humanity taken away from him.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock couldn't help it. He grabbed John's wrists and forced him to stop. "No." He said, holding the doctor's hands away from himself. "You have the right to think whatever you want about me, but you can't deny the facts. I spent months working, trying to find you. But Moriarty is Moriarty. I couldn't save you quicker." He looked straight into John's eyes. "And even if you think I'm not human..." It hurt. "...I am. I am human. And as a human, I won't let you hurt yourself. Never. You deserve better than pain.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John pulled away from Sherlock harshly, pinning the man to the wall and ignoring the unpleasant ache his abused body gave. His words came out in a hoarse whisper, voiceless because voices only held lies. Sherlock’s voice was soft and caring. He was lying. Moriarty had drilled the statement into his head millions of times over, that certain voices couldn’t be trusted. “I know what I deserve, Sherlock. _ ”  _ His eyes stared back into Sherlock, moving slightly as if he were reading them. In honesty, he was, searching for something  _ anything  _ that would prove Sherlock wasn’t lying. He eased his pressure and backed away. “I know what I deserve. You don’t. You don’t know me.” And it was true. Sherlock didn’t know. He only knew of the doctor paired with his human side. It was lost now, leaving John broken and empty. So yes, Sherlock didn’t know.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock gasped when John pinned him against the wall. He shook his head, tears filling his eyes again. "You feel different. But you're the same man I’ve love, the same man from before. You haven’t changed. He hasn’t changed you. Moriarty is dead, he was wrong, and he didn't. change. you." He said sincerely, enunciating each of his last three words. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Wow. Of all the lies that Sherlock would ever tell, this was the most far-fetched. This was ridiculous. John let go, walking out the door and into the living room, where he sat on an edge of the sofa, wincing at the fantastic sting that his arm gave him every time he moved it too fast. His legs were even set apart and his eyes were stormy grey, staring at the turned-off telly. 

 

John wasn't going to be let up to his room- and even if he did manage, Sherlock would walk in and see the bloody mess he'd created of it. The doctor took his reddened jumper off, setting it on the floor on the other side of the sofa's arm, his ribs poking out brashly under from his cotton vest. It was that or have dried blood weigh down his already-soiled jumper. The doctor brought his legs up as he sank further into the familiar comfort of it, his arms looped around and hugged his knees to his chest. He pushed his bandaged against his legs in a subtle, but nonetheless painful manner, regretting ever allowing himself to escape Moriarty in the first place. Even that torture had been less painful than being around Sherlock.

 

-x-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock could hear the noise of his heart being broken into his chest. He slid to the floor,  biting his lower lip to mute a silent scream. 

Just one high. 

Just one last high. 

Or maybe more.

Many, many more.

Sherlock's hand was moving itself towards the place under the bathtub, where he had hidden his wooden box. He chuckled sadly. He had hidden it thinking it could become useful again. How right he’d been.

Ha. 

How ironic. How sad. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John had fallen asleep, his eyes closing with the lull of rain in the background. And  _ lightning _ . The doctor woke, flinching lightly as his eyes adjusted to the still-bright room. he rubbed his right hand over his eyes before he forced himself to get off the comfort of the couch. He walked towards the bathroom. Was Sherlock still there? He looked at the clock that ticked away the five minutes he'd been asleep and almost dreadingly walked towards the slightly ajar door. 

 

Oh no. Sherlock no. 

 

The man shakily held a box that John had thought he'd banished years ago and was in the process of opening it. John sat next to where he was sat on the cold tile, gently reaching for the box and taking it away. What the hell would getting a high fix do? He opened the box, Sherlock watching his movements as he the doctor pulled out the needles, pressing their tips to the floor in order to make them unusable. He binned each one after he bent them, going through a number before he took the rest of the contents in the box and dumped them into the toilet. 

 

Without looking at Sherlock, he stood. It was only fair, wasn’t it? John walked upstairs to his room, bending without caring of the pain that bloomed across his thinly covered body. He gathered all the blades, cupping them in his hands as he made his way back downstairs, throwing them into the water and flushed them, watching as both Sherlock's addiction and John's addiction swirled together and were discarded from their home. John sat down beside Sherlock again, closer this time but not touching him. Just a mental reminder that even though John felt pure and absolute hatred towards Sherlock and Sherlock didn't feel anything for John (despite the detective's words) it'd still be the two of them against the world. Against their demons. At least for now.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SORRY CAMILLE ILL REPLY TO ALL THE RPS SOON
> 
>  
> 
> And catch up on all the comments. Sorry, guys, Camille and I love your comments I've just been too busy and she doesn't have an acc. Hugs to all of you, thank you for reading our crazy, crazy story.

It'd still be the two of them against the world. Against their demons. At least for now.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock protested when John took his box away from him. Or he would have if the doctor's touch hadn't been so gentle. He craved to see bits of the old John- _his_ John poke out so much that he shut up, relaxing in the thought he could buy whatever he needed again. But when the doctor came back with the razors, and threw them away along with Sherlock's evils, he understood he couldn't. He couldn't find the strength inside him to break that silent vow. Sherlock stared to the toilets, then to the floor.

He craved to touch John. To tell him he loved him.

He couldn't say it, though. Didn't want to hurt him further.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The pair of them sat side-by-side, knowing that any word from either of them might rip the fragile human out of John once again. The doctor looked straight ahead, his hands resting on his knees and his sore back pressed flush to the wall. He allowed for a few minutes to pass before he spoke up, feeling more stable now. He allowed for voice to trickle into his words, taking on the same tone that he would've used to calm Sherlock before all this happened. He cleared his throat.

 

"Sher-" He couldn't say the man's name. Not when he'd dreamt it all those nights when Moriarty had broken him. Not when he'd had the syllables had reverberated through his every time that he'd been tied and taken. He closed his eyes, feeling the phantom pain that broke through him. "Never. _Never_ even _think_ of doing that again." He turned his head to face the detective, looking eye-level at the slouching man. His old mind supplied a perfect " _Oh, look at that, posh git getting his trousers all dirty."_ Sherlock replying to it with an, _"Oh shut up."_ He felt his lips tingle lightly, feeling the kiss that would've proceeded those words. John blinked again, forcing himself out of his daydream and back into his broken, scarred reality.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

When Sherlock felt the weight of John's gaze on him, he turned his head and looked to the doctor, silently. Listening to the few, careful words. Then, he said his ones, just as carefully, tip-toeing to not break the moment. “You, too John.” He simply said, his heart still pounding loudly into his chest. He almost felt it, the high, the bliss, for one second, nothing would have mattered but the blue, warm artificial bliss pumped into his veins. "...You ruined the tiles." He whispered without any attempt to make John feel guilty, as he tilted his head toward the marks the twisted needles left on the floor.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked down at what Sherlock was pointing as. Better them gone than a promise broken. Amusement fluttered through him. "Mrs Hudson'll add it to our rent, nothing to worry about."  He picked at the tile lightly, memorizing the lines along with other memories of the bathroom. The blotch of discolouring from an experiment gone wrong, a dent in the wall from when Sherlock had hit it hard- fainting from low blood sugar during a case. The small blood stains that refused to leave from when John had patched Sherlock up after a chase. This was home.

 

Without thinking, John leant onto Sherlock's shoulder heavily, not having enough strength to hold himself up anymore. He closed his eyes as he finally felt the pain and soreness of a year of trauma, torture, and emotional conflict. His breathing quickened but lulled to a slow calm. He was with Sherlock. The doctor closed his eyes, body pressed up against his flatmate's as he dozed off to a proper rest for the first time in a year.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

When Sherlock felt John resting against his shoulder, closing his eyes, he knew it was it. He knew the doctor was finally back at home, and he didn't shift, didn't say all theses words pushing inside his throat.

 

Glancing to the bathtub, he only saw John's legs laced with his own, their laugh. The scent of soap and shampoo. But he didn't see Max. He felt him, like a shadow ready to come back if he focused on him. Still, the first memory he had was with John.

A smile appeared on his lips as he looked to the sink. He remembered the first time John had entered while Sherlock was brushing his teeth. He had blushed from shame, thought he could never be loved again after having showed he was just human.

 

And John had wiped away the rest of toothpaste with a towel.

Right now, Sherlock would give anything to let John knows he was human. Had always been, even if he had always been scared to show it.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John woke to a warm body beside him and a head resting on top of his. Of course, he panicked immediately but forced himself to calm. Sherlock. The man was breathtaking when he wasn't actively trying to kill John. And perhaps- he was breathtaking even then. John's shoulder ached as he moved the tiniest bit, earning a rough growl out of the doctor before forcing it stifled.

 

Sherlock himself looked as if he hadn't slept in months- but that couldn't have been possible. He had been with Max. Max would've taken care of Sherlock. John balanced Sherlock off of him, propping him up straight before standing. He bent again, slipping a hand under his sleeping detective's neck and sliding the other under his waist. He ignored the way his body protested, carrying a weight while being so weak. It didn't matter. John concentrated on Sherlock, quietly moving him to his bedroom as he laid him down and pull the duvet over him. He closed the door and walked out, settling a kettle on the stove and forcing himself not to think too much.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock felt asleep eventually. He couldn't know when nor how it happened, but the exhaustion won and his body relaxed as it reminded the endless happiness he had shared with John. Vaguely, he felt he was moving, but the sleep, as a heavy pressure kept him limp. Without knowing why, he had the instincts that his dreams were easier than the reality to live.

 

He couldn't grab them, couldn't realize what was going on, but the atmosphere was sweet and soft, comfortable as comfortable when John stroked his curls for hours.

Sherlock didn't wake up, but he felt something wet and hot on his face. Tears. He had been crying from happiness.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John made his cup of tea, subconsciously making enough for two. His scowled at himself for being so open by Sherlock. Truth be told, it wasn't really the detective that John had to be a prick to. Obviously, the fact that Sherlock was Sherlock was a part of it- but in general, John forced himself to be cold and distant to those around him. He had reverted back to how he had been when Sherlock had died. Sad. Lonely. Dead. Only difference this time was that _he_ was dead. The doctor splashed milk into a (new?) mug, considering he'd smashed his on the wall a year ago. This mug wasn't Sherlockian. And most definitely not something Mrs Hudson or anyone else would've gifted. With dread, John lifted the cup so that it's bottom could be visible to the doctor. _Max_.

 

Oh bloody Christ.

 

John immediately dumped the tea into the sink and washed the cup out, feeling a feeling that was a mixture of disgust and guilt. He left it to dry and made his way back to the kettle. _You know what? Fuck tea._ John grunted to himself as he walked back into Sherlock's room, realizing that he'd somehow left his mobile there. He'd call Sarah tonight. Perhaps she'd be up for a second date- even though the two of them would fully know who would be on John's mind. Thinking on it, a date with Sarah was a terrible idea. Nonetheless, John moved to go retrieve his phone. He creaked the door open and quietly walked in, looking for it in the mess of the duvet. It was on the side table next to Sherlock's. John picked it up and looked at the detective one last time- only hesitating to move outside as he noticed the tears. But there was a smile on Sherlock's face. The expression ran sadness and despair through him. Quietly and most likely regrettably, he used his left, bandaged hand to wipe clean the tears that doted the chemist's face before he snuck out, turning on the telly as a distraction from bad, sad, or (the mostly painful) happy memories.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

After Sherlock woke up, he spent a few minutes yawning and rubbing his eyes happily, the haze of his dreams still covering him. He could remember, having dreamed of John's hand touching his cheeks. And then, it had been erased. Crushed under the violent reality coming back. The illusion of having simply _erased_ this last year was just an illusion.

As he got up and left his room, he felt even more exhausted than before having slept. He craved to close his eyes and come back there. Into his happy dream. Shivering, feeling cold, he wrapped a dressing gown around him.

The sight of the mug on the kitchen sink ended up burning what was left of joy inside him. His mug.

 

The detective didn't know if the worst was that John had noticed it was Max's, or that he had removed the last marks of Max's existence. It probably wasn’t the man’s real name.

Nobody knew him but Sherlock. Nobody would remember him, but Sherlock. "How long did I sleep?" He asked absently, entering the living-room.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked up at the never-stopping clock. "A few hours." He had spent the last hour or so simply looking around the flat, looking at memories that'd been created without him. And suddenly, John felt a little less at home. This was Sherlock's and Max's. And John had simply barged in and taken over. Hell, he'd even practically _used_ the man's mug. But there was still plenty left of the flat that wasn't John's. The extra jacket that hung on the coat rack, the random socks in the bathroom clothes basket. Now that John actually looked, he could practically see a mark of Max on everything of the flat.

 

He stood, wanting to run, hide- anything to get away from his complex mix of emotions. "I'll be gone out of the flat by tomorrow- sorry it's taking so long. I don't want to..." John searched for the right word, "contaminate your home." He said it with absolutely no retortion. It was just information. An explanation.

 

The doctor's stomach was obviously too thin- he was nearly thinner than Sherlock. Perhaps he'd even manage to find something to eat. If he could eat at all. The man winced lightly as he drank from a water bottle that he had brought, opening it for the first time since he'd touched it. His stomach couldn't handle _water_. That's how much Moriarty had broken him. But it wasn't as if Jim had starved John on purpose. The doctor had been the one to do this to himself, refusing the spider's spoon feeding more than he had accepted it. He set the bottle down after managing sips, his head slightly dizzy at how much pain that it had caused him.

 

"I'll stay the night at Sarah's if you want-," John thought to himself, his eyes lighting up excitedly for a minute. "She's gotten married, hasn't she? That bloke- her fianceé, nice couple. We should visit soon." And as soon as the words slipped out, John frowned to himself. There was no _we_ in Sherlock and John. And it was sure as hell that visiting a newly _wed_ couple would only hurt the two further. John looked at the kitchen table and at the ring that rested on top of it, sadness filtering through him once more and his eyes dimming. He cleared his throat, clasping his hands together before separating them and clenching and unclenching them singularly. "Sorry, that was... a bit not good."

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock understood what John was implying. Max was still here, between them. And he would always be, because there would always be a sock of a habit Sherlock would have forgotten to delete. Like the man's number, that the detective hadn't erased yet. "John." He said softly, carefully, to show he was sincere. "I don't want you to leave." He felt panicked, thinking about the doctor away from him again. "And.. I'll clean the flat up. I hadn’t had the time to do it yet. But I will. I'll put everything in boxes." He preferred a very alive John over a dead Max. But he couldn't bring himself to get rid of his stuff. Only tidying it up in a corner, to take dust. But at least, there would be something left from the man. He noticed the difficulties John had to drink. The doctor had lost weight, but Sherlock hadn't imagined... hadn’t imagined that it would be a problem to such an extent. "It's your home. It will always be. Please, John.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAMILLE MADE A TRAILER FOR THE FIC ITS AMAZING AND HEARTBREAKING AND I CANT EVEN: 
> 
> https://vimeo.com/332515080

The doctor had lost weight, but Sherlock hadn't imagined... hadn’t imagined that it would be a problem to such an extent. "It's your home. It will always be. Please, John.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John scoffed slightly. "No, this isn't my home, 'lock," He looked around slightly, his voice lowering, "haven't got one." He clicked the 't' in  _ got  _ to emphasise his point. He looked back up at Sherlock, noticing how the once-sociopathic, distant eyes had allowed themselves vulnerable. To be happy. And now, they were just unbelievingly sad. The doctor didn't know what to do, awkward and trapped in his own skin and mind. 

 

He perked up when a sharp sound reverberated through the flat. Even pressure, singular ring.  _ Client.  _ John's eyes looked questioningly up to Sherlock whom in turn only looked back down with a blank look in his eyes. The trill rang again. Oh for  _ fucks sakes _ . There wasn't anything for Sherlock and John to fix for themselves, at least they could help fix others. "Get the door- i'll be back." The doctor ran upstairs, looking in the mirror. His face was fine. His hair would be fine if he ran a hand through it. He pulled on a long-sleeved button-up shirt and double checked that there were no visible signs of anything  _ wrong _ with him. There would always be dark circles and a larger number of fine lines that John's face had aged drastically through the past year. But clients were usually too worked up to notice all that. He fixed his belt around his waist (jeans suddenly too loose) as he walked back downstairs, notepad and pen in hand. He took a seat across from Sherlock and on his armchair and looked at the woman who was nervously wringing her hands. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

A case. Like before. He remembered how Mary had convinced him to go on a case with John just before the wedding, so he would have a little distraction. Maybe this would help John to feel at home again. That's all Sherlock could hope for as he opened the door and greeted the woman in front of him. He strived to focus and to deduce, but theses last days, the last year had been so... Complicated. "Come in." He motioned towards the client's chair. Dusty- considering nobody had been on it since so long. "Sit down, we’re here to listen." He raised his hand. “Wait until Doctor Watson joins us. He has to hear to the story too." He sat down in his armchair, crossing his legs, rubbing his trousers. “-And don't be boring." He'd accept this case, no matter. It was an opportunity to save John. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The woman wrung her hands tighter, looking as if she was about to burst. "Weeks ago, there was this little girl delivered to our orphanage." She looked nervously between the two. John forced his best, most comforting smile- turning the charm on thick and she wavily smiled back. "Alright- weeks ago, there was this  _ toddler  _ delivered to our orphanage. She couldn't have been more than two or so years old, and she was  _ absolutely  _ darling." Her face glossed over- with memories presumably before she brought herself back to the present. "A few months later, she disappeared, around the start of last year. Of course, we reported it to the Yard, but they're..." John looked up at Sherlock, who was simply observing him. He nodded, turning his attention to the woman, "They're idiots, miss- but I still think that this is more of their thing than it is ours." She looked bristled for a second before she quickly nodded to herself. "Forgive me, I forgot this." The woman handed over a small lisp of old-looking, faded paper- said it was for a  _ John Watson."  _

 

The doctor took it in his hand, trying to make any sort of sense of it at all. He handed it over to Sherlock. "Some sort of... code? Are those  _ dancing men?" _

 

The woman nodded nervously, "Oh please, Dr Watson- you've got to help us, and Mr Holmes, we need you, too. The child was a delight, even if she did seem to be calling out for her parents every time she opened her mouth. I can't imagine something bad happening to her!" By this time, the woman had stood, walking over to John and kneeling by his seat taking his hand in hers and practically begging. The doctor leant forwards, true emotion shining in his eyes. "We'll get her back for you, get some rest and take some time home, doctor's orders." John winked a bit and the woman flushed lightly before she got up and walked out of the door. John leant forwards in his seat once she was gone- looking at Sherlock. "Alright- what've we got?" 

 

-x-x-x-x

This case wasn't interesting. A child being kidnapped- boring. The statistics were so high that it was common. Sherlock had almost asked the woman to leave- even though he had wanted to solve a case with John- this was simply almost too boring.

 

Until the paper. 

 

The men, the drawing of many men, dancing and posing. A smile appeared on Sherlock's lips. It was no longer a boring case of idiot statistics. “We’ll take the case." He felt a sting of jealousy as John talked and winked at the woman. It was obvious that she was fancied him, not once she looked for a long time to Sherlock. She talked to John, watched John, gave the paper to John. "You can leave, Miss. We have everything we need. Don't worry, I'll figure it out."

Immediately after she left, Sherlock hurried to the table, putting the paper on it and grabbing a blank scratch sheet of paper and a pen. "We have everything we need here, John." He pointed to the drawings. "Look at them..." He frowned for a second before smiling. "Easy. It's so easy, can't you see?" He quickly drawn lines on the blank paper. There was the same number of lines that the number of characters. "It's one of the most easy code to break. It's called an alphabetical substitution. Do you remember the Blind Banker case, with the books? It was one of the most difficult codes. Without the key, impossible to break the code. But here." He tapped the men. "Each symbol is a letter. Each different symbol is a different letter. Now, we just need to try, try and try again every possibility until something makes sense." He sat down and pulled a chair close to him, for John. "We're in England, an english child has been kidnapped in an english orphanage. We can assume it's written in english." He glanced to John and smiled. "The game is on.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John felt the life rush through him as Sherlock explained, a small smile coating his face. Eventually, Sherlock lost himself to his mind palace, leaving John alone for a bit. The doctor sighed as he looked over he paper, wishing that he could solve it for himself and just find the girl. But Sherlock was the clever one (most times) and he had his methods. John flipped the paper to the back, a familiar phone number written on the back. His eyebrow creased as he dug out his phone, looking the number up in his recent. 

_ White Towels  _

The contact was saved- even though John had very deliberately deleted it. What-  _ how?  _ What connection did the woman have to the child being kidnapped? John stood, walking over to where Sherlock was reclined on the sofa and shook him a little, to be met with irritated eyes. John huffed before he handed the slip to Sherlock, showing him the back, a flush probably covering his cheeks, remembering the night.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock groaned when John shook his shoulder. He had to focus and to think, to be able to solve it as quickly as possible. Maybe the child's life was at risk. But it wasn't what worried the detective the most. He feared that John become bored of him and leave. "Mmhm?" He opened his eyes, looking to the number. He frowned. "We have to call it. Tracking it would be useless, it had been added purposely, and therefore... Wait. You know this number." He deduced. "Who? You're clearly embarrassed, who? ...A ex-lover? Some one night stand?”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John's eyebrows scrunched in together, a trio of lines appearing on his forehead, surrounded be finer lines etched into his face. His eyes didn't hold any remorse and the blush fell off his face. What in the world did  _ he  _ have to be embarrassed about? It wasn't like John had gone behind Sherlock's back. He was a single man who had had needs and had simply fulfilled them. Unlike Sherlock- who'd decided  _ i'll fuck this bloke, fall in love with him, get my (ex) boyfriend kidnapped tortured, etc, etc _ . John's face hardened, anger filling in. He looked back down at Sherlock, his eyes ablaze. As if  _ Sherlock  _ had any right to question about her. He managed to keep his voice steady. "Yeah, I know her. Great..." John smirked to himself, "everything." 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock noticed the way John's expression changed. He felt jealousy coming back, squeezing his heart but he said nothing about it. He had cheated, he couldn't complain. "John. A girl has been kidnapped and there's the number of someone you fucked on the only clue we have, so, yes. It's normal if I have to know details." He moved his hand. "Not details about the way you fucked her, it's not the bloody point here." 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John sniffed lightly, thoroughly annoyed by his flatmate. "Fine. You want me to call her?" The doctor dialed the number, looking down at Sherlock momentarily before returning his gaze to straight ahead of him- waiting for her to pick up. He pushed the detective's legs back so that he could sit in the space that was made, sharing the seat with the bony limbs pressed against his back. He brought the phone back down after receiving an automated  _ number not reachable  _ message. "Yeah, there- she's not picking up." He brought his phone back down, looking at the number again before having the mobile vibrate in his hands. 

_ Gave you my number. IM _

John dreaded the next message, looking at the texting icon that bobbed lightly- indicating that the other was still typing.

_ Thought you might call. IM _


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorryyyyyyyy i haven't updated in the /longest/ time!! Camille's been nagging me to do it but i'm just terrible and school got in the way and blah blah blah. Anyways. I'm so sorry, guys. Hope you like the chapter! I'll be responding to comments soon, I know I haven't been on that either. I know i know, i'm being terrible. Enjoy the chapter! 
> 
> And a little ~ (wave) from camille.

_ Thought you might call. IM _

The doctor sat frozen, memories of the pool running through him. How the bloody  _ hell  _ was the woman related to the child? He looked down, waiting for another message before realizing that she was waiting for him. John twisted, handing Sherlock the phone.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock nodded to John, before taking the phone. It came back. The adrenaline, but the good one, not from being tortured and losing the he loved but from running after the bad guys, thinking, deducing. He quickly typed an answer. 

Is the child the present? SH

Moriarty was dead, despite the message on the paper. Sherlock couldn't believe he was still alive. It was... Impossible.

Are you one of Moriarty's minion or are you related to him? SH

 

-x-x-x-x

 

_ Oh, it's the Captain's boyfriend! IM  _

_ How he missed you, darling- glad to see you both reunited!! IM _

 

By this point, Sherlock had sat up and John had gotten himself closer to the man- just so he could see better. He felt a sneer run through him, a pitiful (and familiar) thought of  _ he's not my boyfriend _ flashing across his mind. The doctor stiffened, reading the message. She couldn't have known. Only that he had been sad and she'd been a great fuck to cheer him up. 

 

_ The child? Oh yes- that's what it is, I suppose. Don't understand why anyone would like them- never really do shut up. IM _

 

The texts stopped for a bit, as if the lady was thinking.

 

_ Perhaps I should make her shut up. IM _

 

Oh god no. John grabbed the phone from Sherlock, his fingers flying over the keys in desperation.

 

_ What do you want? JW  _

 

John kept his eyes glued to the phone, practically praying that she'd reply and fall into the distraction, taking her attention off the baby and onto her phone.

 

_ I want to burn the  _ heart  _ out of you, Johnny. IM _

_ So, let's call it a trade- you for the girl. We all go home happy and no one gets delivered fresh baby fingers to their doorstep. IM _

 

Without hesitation, John began typing again. 

 

_ Where? JW  _

 

_ Always so impatient. Give the phone to your little boyfriend. IM _

 

John forced himself to resist the urge of correcting her and held it back out to Sherlock.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock grabbed the phone, and avoided John's gaze. He knew the doctor would protest, but he couldn't accept this deal. And if there was any link with Moriarty's network, Sherlock couldn't pretend do the exchange and keep both the doctor and the girl. It would fail, and he would lose both.

_ I haven’t accepted thi. SH _

He typed, raising his hand to calm John down, cutting off his words. 

_ I don't have any proof you have the child. You could be as well lying. And I don't know who you are. I don't deal with unknown people. SH _

 

-x-x-x-x

 

_ Isabella Moriarty. I'm the one who made your boyfriend cum stars. IM _

_ Look- if you want a nice, unassuming, not-at-all dangerous place to meet, then pick it. I'll send you a picture of the girl. Think she's quite pretty now that I see a resemblance. IM _

_ [Img. Attached: Blondie_and_I.jpg]  _

_ There you go, your proof. By the way, Sherlock- Molly Hooper's told me you have quite the eye for lipstick- we had a quick… chat. What do you think of my lips? The fit perfectly with Johnny's! MI _

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock's hand closed into a fist. The girl seemed horrified, terrified, and the woman seemed... typically kind of woman who could steal John's heart away.

_ He liked my lips better. SH _

 

The text was sent without thought, jealousy coursing through him.

_ We won't save the child. SH _

He turned the screen away from John, so he couldn't see. There was no actual safe place. There was no place where he could keep John while saving the child and it simply broke his heart that he would have to choose.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked up from where he sat, looking through wide eyes and head still tilted down. "What? What is it?" He reached for the phone, only to have it tilted away from him. "Goddammit, Sherlock! What did you do?" He managed to rip the phone out of the detective's hands, wrestling and practically tackling him when Sherlock held it in the air, using his height to his advantage. "Bloody hell, give it here, you bastard." Not realizing that he'd practically straddled Sherlock, his knees bent on the sofa as he sat back down, unlocking his phone while on Sherlock's lap, opening the messages app.

_ We won't save the child. SH  _

John didn't even bother to look up at Sherlock in horror, his eyebrows knitting together as he quickly composed his reply, muttering "Bloody hell we won't."

_ Ignore him, i'll meet you in the park, it won't matter if you're alone or not- i'll come willingly. JW  _


	27. Chapter 27

Ignore him, i'll meet you in the park, it won't matter if you're alone or not- i'll come willingly. JW 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock tried to stop John. He tried to grab the phone again, tried to throw it away and destroy the message and the picture of the terrified girl haunting his mind and forever would. But John typed an answer, and Sherlock didn't need to be a consulting detective to know what he was writing. "Don't! John, are you insane?! Don't do that!" The weight of the doctor on his thighs reminded him painfully of sweet times, when they were kissing and loving each other. He breathed in shakily. "You're doing exactly what Moriarty wants! She doesn't care about the girl, she wants you. Don't play along!" He didn't even try to grab the phone again. It was useless. "You're not going. You don't even know that child. She is no one for you, so, why on Earth would you care if she died?!" 

 

Sherlock would care. He would spend the rest of his life thinking about this kid, silently suffering from her loss, but John couldn't know. Because if John knew, he would have to carry the weight of the guilt, and that Sherlock was willing to take it all. To protect John.

To protect the man he loved. 

 

"You're not going there." Eventually, he reached out, to take the phone. "I'll tell her we cancel it. She can kill the child. We don't care.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John glared from where he sat, looking at the detective head on and silently shaking in anger. "You machine. I have to save her." The doctor hastily got off Sherlock's lap, unwanting to be even in the same room as the detective. After, he leant forward, gripping the man by his collar, probably wrinkling it as he did so. "I'm a soldier, Sherlock- I could care less of what she does to me and you shouldn't care either- you didn’t care when you’d been fucking behind me back and you have no right to care now.” He walked over to the coat stand, grabbing a hidden magazine of bullets from the top shelf and reloaded his gun, tucking it into his waistband before he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and folded them back. He tugged his coat on, thinking and knowing that he was simply going to hand himself over to another of Moriarty's "partners." He turned to face Sherlock, listening to the rest of his words. "There is a child out there," he lifted his right hand and formed it into a finger, pointing to the outside of the flat, "And if you think for a second that i'm not going to do everything to save her- you're wrong." He pulled the coat around him tighter, not bothering to retrieve his mobile, opening the door, he mumbled after careful thought. "Consider her my daughter, then.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock followed John, even though his words had simply ripped the detective to shreds. He had to figure a way out to protect him, and he couldn't do it if he stayed in the flat. He grabbed his coat, quickly wrapping it around himself. As he reached out to grab John's wrist, he felt it. The weight of the phone in his other hand. "She's not your daughter." Sherlock knew John would think he didn't care, and it was the point. He had to keep hating and blaming Sherlock for everything, to not carry any guilt. "She's just a... A lonely girl. Look, John. Look at it rationally. She was in an orphanage. It means she has no family, nobody cares about her life and nobody will be sad when she does die."

 

John’s changed his mind. SH

 

Sherlock walked behind the doctor, hiding the phone into his pocket. "You are a doctor. You save lives. You matter more than her.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

"I'm not a doctor, Sherlock- not anymore. I'm a soldier and it's better you accept that I'm not the John Watson you knew." John ripped his wrist out from Sherlock's hand, hating each and every single word he spoke, wanting nothing more than to simply lose his hearing if it meant that he didn't have to listen to the detective's idiot words. "She is now, Sherlock! Alright? I'll get her safe, you get her to Mycroft and she can have a decent life." He walked quicker, feeling anticipation and a pure need to save her. As he pushed through the crowd, Sherlock following behind, he bumped into someone. He felt light pressure in his hand before he felt the material of paper being pressed into it. Too belatedly, he turned to look at a dark figure merge back into the crowd.

 

 

The doctor looked down at the paper, glaring at it before turning around and stuffing it into Sherlock's hand. "What does it say?" He didn't bother waiting for the man as he increased his pace, knowing that Sherlock would follow behind.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock looked to the paper, focused on it while he automatically followed John, his body and his mind working on their owns, separated somehow. It was easier, this time. He knew a few of the letters already, even if he wondered if the rest hadn't been purposely written while choosing not yet used lettres. Then, he quoted the message. "She's a beauty. Looks just like her Mum." He sighed, shaking his head. "Can't you see, John? They are bothering your head. They are making you believe... You get affected by her fate. It's wrong, you don't know her, and what? You'll kill yourself, in the hope of saving someone you don't know and that nobody loves?" He himself was affected by the message. By the gaze of the girl on the picture. But he loved John and couldn't bear to see  him sacrificing himself like this. "I'm sorry." He said, before grabbing John's wrist and pulling him toward Baker Street. "Follow me before it's too late.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John didn't pull away this time. He simply turned, facing Sherlock as he forced the crowd around them to part and leave them in their own space. His eyes softened as his voice did the same, feeling his body relax and allow vulnerability for moments. "Don't you get it, Sherlock?" He searched the startlingly polychromatic eyes, looking for any sense of recognition or realization. "I'm going to kill myself anyway- hell, i'm already dead. I might as well do it and save her life the same." He pulled away, oddly gentler this time before he continued his journey through the crowd. The doctor didn't know who the gun was for. If it was either to put a bullet in the woman's head and walk out with baby in hand- using the gun as defense- or if he was to hand over the girl to Sherlock and put the bullet in his own head. The soldier stalked towards the park, emotion clouding his eyes, nearly to the point of blindness.


	28. Chapter 28

The soldier stalked towards the park, emotion clouding his eyes, nearly to the point of blindness.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock gasped but still followed John. No protests escaped his mouth, he knew the doctor wanted to end his life after everything Moriarty did to him, but... but hearing him saying the words, their sounds being comprehended my Sherlock in real life- it was different. Worse. He half ran after the man he loved so desperately, promising to do anything to save John. He hoped he was going to be strong enough to look at the girl in the eyes while purposely failing to save her. But he couldn't lose John. He couldn't lose him again.

 

Eventually, they arrived to the park. Sherlock reached out, brushed his hand against John's. Just brushed. Just silently begged him to not leave Sherlock. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John held out a hand to Sherlock, quietly asking for his phone back. When he was met with hesitation, he looked down, conveying a simple message mixed with millions of emotions. It is what it is, Sherlock. He took his phone and opened through the messages app, ignoring what Sherlock had sent, knowing that Isabella would've done the same. 

 

 

I have some conditions. JW 

 

 

You will let my Sherlock go and give him the baby. JW 

 

 

As soon as he's gone, I'll walk home with you. JW 

 

 

He took steps into the grass before moving onto the sidewalk, going to the discreet spot under the trees where a trio of a man, a woman, and a child stood. "Helloooo, Johnny! So good to see you back. You're such a pretty man, you have any free time later?" The woman grinned and winked at the doctor who simply and plainly kept his face emotionless and concentrated. She shrugged. "Alright, then. No problem." She bent down picking up the infant seat by the top handle and swinging the too skinny, tired, sick child back over to Sherlock. As soon as she was in the detective's pale hands, John glanced over at her, pressing his left hand over her pulse and his other over the opening of her nose. Stable. She'd be fine. Just malnutrisious and exhausted. But underneath all that, John saw the wide, open stormy blue eyes and the flutter of golden hair. Her lips were bright red, but her nose was almost... Johnsonian and she seemed to hold her... mother's expressions. The doctor looked up to Sherlock, a question etched over his face. He looked back down at her, imagining things that could've been before he was brought back to reality, a hand held out to him from Isabella. Right. His daughter was dead. This wasn't her. Without hesitation, John intertwined his hand with hers. The man held left after a signal, walking off to god knows where. 

 

 

But this couldn't be it.

 

 

John pulled out his phone, forcing himself to kiss Isabella's cheek as he explained that he'd like a picture of the girl. The woman had rolled her eyes and insulted the general commonwealth but had allowed him anyways. “Might as well, Johnny, not going to see something that disgusting in a while.” She shuddered lightly to herself while John held back his glare, using the time that it took to walk back over to Sherlock to open his notes app and type on it without Isabella realizing. He walked over to her basked, message typed out and positioned the phone as if he was taking a picture of the baby when in reality, his phone showed the message to Sherlock discreetly. 

 

 

I've got a tracker in my ring- Myc forced me to wear it. Follow us tomorrow. Get the girl to Molly and bring a gun when you do come back. I'm not dying here- I have something to live for. JW

 

 

He looked up at Sherlock, a firmness and determination in his eyes before he jogged back towards Isabella, who hastily pulled him down in a sloppy and wet kiss, almost throwing him off-balance before he forced himself to respond. He pulled back slightly, wanting to get Sherlock and the girl safely away. "We can do this later, somewhere more..." John forced a sultry-esque grin, "allowing?" She grinned back, taking his hand and leading him wherever. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Everything happened so quickly. John took the lead, as the soldier he had repeated he was, and Sherlock's heart was getting broken, stabbed all over again at the sight of that tiny, weak girl. The face and the sparkles in her eyes would have been enough if his rational mind didn't say otherwise. After all, every child looked the same. And Moriarty, no matter if it was Isabella or Jim, was cruel and smart enough to create that picture, to hit that button, to manipulate the detective and the doctor that way. When he held the basket, the weight of the human being inside told him he couldn't not save her. He had to protect this innocent soul. But.... He had been ready to try something. Until he read, both in John's eyes and in his phone the will to live, fire he had missed. 

 

 

John faded away with the woman, Sherlock's heart sunk as he watcher him, and saw the kiss. Lips he had felt on his own for so long and which he missed. Sighing, he glanced inside the basket, looked to the girl. "I'm sorry." He whispered. "I'm sorry I almost... Left you alone. I'm not a good man." Then, he brought her back at Baker Street, already planning how he could ask Molly to take care of this orphan girl. 

 

 

John wasn't the only one to miss Rosie. Sherlock missed her too. He had seen nothing but the belly of Mary growing, but it had been enough. Enough for the detective to love this tiny being. 

 

And it had died.

So violently.

 

 

Sherlock hadn't showed John he was affected. He had told him the child was nothing, not even alive yet, just cells, random cells, moving and mixed up.

But indeed, he had been affected.

And every time he looked to the girl, his heart ached with the memory. 

 

 

The flat was silent, there was John missing. Probably in danger, and it worried Sherlock, but he had hope again, because he saw in John's eyes the will to live. For the first time in months, years, maybe. John was back, so, the detective knew it was worth spending a night alone.

 

 

Carefully, he picked the girl up, willing to help her to sit on the couch and to have a meal. "Are you hungry?" He grabbed the blanket covering the back of the basket, to warm her up. "My name's Sherlock." 

 

 

Then, he saw it. The papers, the men, still dancing, never stopping, as insane. Sherlock grabbed the paper folded neatly and slipped into a pocket of the basket, and the letters ran quickly, his mind figuring it out.

 

 

"This one's for you Sherlock:

Rosamund Mary Watson."

 

 

Sherlock breathed in shakily, panting as the realization hit him. Consider her my daughter, then. Her daughter. 

 

 

"Oh, God." He whispered with horror, as he remembered he hadn't wanted to save her at first, fearing for John's life. 


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> because i can't say no to my little flea

"Oh, God." He whispered with horror, as he remembered he hadn't wanted to save her at first, fearing for John's life. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John found himself pressed against a brick wall as soon as the pair of them had rounded the corner, soft lips pressing harder and harder against his as she rutted onto him. Much to John’s disgust, he felt his body responding. He groaned, which was most likely interpreted as a moan due to the fact that the woman only smiled into the kiss. She pulled back. “Come on now, Johnny- we’ve got work to do. The doctor allowed himself to be tugged away again, his pants suddenly uncomfortable and annoyingly tight. He prayed that Sherlock would simply follow instruction and get him out and away from this insane woman.

 

They climbed into a glossy black car, tinted windows and all, as they sped through roads- most likely in attempt to lose anyone that would follow them. Sherlock would. But Sherlock was smart. And if he was smart enough, then he’d wait until tomorrow to do it. They arrived at a building towards the east side of London, broke down and shabby looking. “Oh don’t be like that, darling- I promise, my brother made things much better for us on the inside. John followed in, hating each and every step he took- but took them nonetheless.

 

Once they were inside, he was shown to a room, assigned to take a shower. He did so, taking his gun with him and managing to rest it in a high corner of the bathtub- away from the water. He walked out, smelling much more like Jim than he would’ve ever liked. He forced the memories down. Not now- John. Work to do, life to save. John rowelled off and changed into the jumper, pants, and jeans that had been laid out. Suddenly, John was very glad that he had taken the gun with him into the shower instead of leaving it beside the sink. He gripped it harder, taking a small comfort in how heavy it still was. He walked outside, tucking it back into his waistband and thanking all the gods that the sweater was thick enough to hide it. 

 

The woman walked in as soon as John was done, practically tackling John onto the bed, intertwining their lips and wrapping her legs around his waist. “You’re perfect, Johnny. So beautifully loyal and determined. No wonder James was so in love with you. He was practically fascinated, you know? It takes quite a lot for my brother to obsess like that for so long- you should be proud.” She pushed John’s shirt up, exposing the majority his ribs and midriff. Their positions were reversed, her kneeled between John’s legs- who in turn was lying flat on the bed, looking down at her, propped up on his elbows and ignoring the way his shoulder protested. 

 

She looked up through eyelashes. “Now- this is going to sting a bit, but you’re going to sit through it if you want your daughter and husband safe, yeah?” She winked at him before she drew out her knife, positioning it on the opposite hip  to her brother’sbrand. John clenched his fists as he felt the blade press in, not cutting skin at first, but then suddenly, he was bleeding. He grit his teeth tighter as she pressed in harder, carving out the same heart that Moriarty had them before writing her own initials, finishing off with another heart. 

 

♥︎ IM  ♥︎

 

She pulled back, leaving John a bleeding mess as he felt the liquid drip down his sides and onto the white bed sheets. She pressed her lips into the red, blood sticking to her lips before she pressed her lips to John’s cheekbone, grinning as she took out her phone, taking a picture of just John’s closed eyes and panting face his with the bloody lip mark, sending it to Sherlock. She smiled and left, “Laterz, Johnny. We’re going to have oh so much fun!” John didn’t bother relaxing, even when she’d left. He stayed panting but then forced himself to move. He managed to take off the jumper completely before he pressed it to his bleeding torture, praying for tomorrow to come faster.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

It was scary. There was a big man in front of her, and she was in a place she didn't know, and the bad woman who had talked to her weren't here. She was alone, with no idea of what was going on. She cried. 

 

Sherlock gasped, seeing tears rolling down the cheeks of the cheeks. "Wait, calm down, I... I'm not going to hurt you..." He didn't know what he had done to scare her off like this, but he had to fix it up. "Look. My name is Sherlock." He raised his hands. "I'm a detective. I'm not going to hurt you..." He spoke softly, but the girl kept crying, begging for her mother and father. It broke Sherlock's heart. 

 

The picture he saw when he glanced down his phone broke his heart as well. He quickly typed a reply.

 

 

Don't hurt him. SH

 

 

Then, he looked around in the flat for something looking like a plushie, or any reassurance presence for a child. A toy, a fluffy animal... 

He grabbed the skull and gave it to the girl. "Hey, hush, hush. Look. That's..." He paused. "...That's Billy. Say Hi to Billy.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John hadn't moved an inch by the time the woman had come back. He looked at her, already empty and emotionless from where he laid on the bed. “Yoo-hoo, Johnny! Brought you a present." She left the bag on the side table before she laid down on the bed, stripping herself off her clothes, leaving herself in red lingerie that crisscrossed a pattern up to her hips. "Oh look, we're practically matching!" By now, the blood had dried, leaving a drip-like marks and surrounding the cuts. "Here, just a small adjustment..." She used her hand to tug at the cut, forcing it to begin bleeding again. John arched his back, a hoarse shout being ripped out of him. "Hush now, it's not that bad." Isabella dipped her finger in it and drew lines from John's him to his waist, running the red along his thin, tan skin. "How beautiful." She straddled the man, pressing her body against his and allowing for her weight to irritate the deep wound further. "Play along if you want them alive, Johhhnnn.”

 

The doctor felt fierceness ignite in his eyes, adrenaline coursing through him and allowing him to momentarily forget his pain. He flipped her onto her back, reversing their positions as John connected their lips. His wound dripped droplets of blood onto her skin as she maniacally grinned. "Knew you'd snap into it soon enough." John didn't bother responding. Instead, he pulled out his gun from his waistband and brought it right next to her temple, knowing full well that she was distracted. "Oh Johnny boy, you just make one mistake after the next." She smiled, pressing her lips harder to John's before she intertwined her hands with John's, cupping his fingers and forcing her finger to join John's at the trigger. "I don't care if I die- it's just that," She mocked a sigh, "You can't live." Despite the doctor's best effort, she turned the gun on him, pulling the trigger. John felt his eyes roll back into his head, losing blood quickly as he fell to the floor.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The... Thing was odd and grey. Smooth. It was cold, hard, but it didn't look like a toy. The girl slid her tiny fingers through the holes of the eyes, raising Billy up and moving it down joyfully. The tears no longer rolled down her skinny face, and instead, she chuckled as she kept shaking it. 

 

 

Sherlock smiled fondly, releasing the skull and letting her playing with it as she pleased. He watched her bringing it to her mouth and sucking it, wincing at the bitter taste of the bone. "Hush. No. Don't do that.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

When John awoke, his neck had been stitched. His limbs hands were tied up above him and his legs barely touched the floor. "You're such a sweetheart, Johnny. But you can be a downright idiot sometimes." The woman walked in, carrying the black bag she had before, but along with a small hose this time. It was turned on, water lazily spilling out of it as she walked to where John was. "Good thing you're so pretty." She kneeled, pressing kisses along the man's thigh as he struggled fruitlessly. "You're lucky it was just a graze, you know- or else i'd have been bored, and my sources tell me that Sherlock can be quite the amusement." John stiffened at the words, grunting out, "Leave them alone." She only smiled, unwrapping John's bandages from around his self-cut arm. She trailed her tongue lazily along them, the movements of the day had forced them to open lightly, blood pooling up in them. 

 

"Now- this is going to hurt, but I think you've deserved it, don't you?" Isabella let the hose fall to the floor and reached a hand into her bag, pulling out what seemed to be a salt and lemon mixture. Oh god. John blinked harshly as he felt the gritty paste being rubbed into his arm. "Look at that- burns doesn't it?" She packed it on, forcing it to stick before she kneeled again, pressing the mixture to the carving she'd made. John felt each and every muscle of his contract, all messages going to his brain were simply just pain pain pain pain pain. John shouted, arching his back while she sat gleefully. Minutes later she stood, using the hose to wash it off before repeating it once more. John felt his body slacken, all the strength sapping out of him as the pain never ended. Hours later, she stood, kissing John's lips but not washing the mixture off. "Until tomorrow, Johnny! Hope you're not dehydrated out by then!"  She closed the door behind her and John prayed for the millionth time for tomorrow to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because i can't say no to my little flea


	30. Chapter 30

"Until tomorrow, Johnny! Hope you're not dehydrated out by then!"  She closed the door behind her and John prayed for the millionth time for tomorrow to come.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock watched the girl playing with the skull for a long while, blinking to not fall asleep. He was exhausted from his day, now the adrenaline was no longer keeping him awake. "Aah-Gah!" Sherlock startled, opening his eyes suddenly. The girl was trying to reach the skull, she had dropped it on the floor. "Hey, wait." Sherlock muttered as he reached out to give her the skull back. "You like Billy a lot, don't you?" He smiled, but the girl looked away, pouting. She kept the skull close to her chest, mumbling things the detective couldn't understand. "...Right. You love him more than me. Great." He sighed and got up, quickly preparing a cup of milk for the girl. He hadn't any idea of what a child ate, but he remembered babies were fed with milk. "Come on. Drink this. I bet you're hungry.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John stayed away throughout the night and into dawn, where he was ignored still until midday. Sherlock. Sherlock would be here. Preferably with a small army. Or a large one. The doctor sighed, but immediately stiffened, each and every movement caused him pain. He hung from where he was tied, his wrists aching and his body worse. Even if his transport did manage to recover, the doctor wasn't sure that his mind ever would. He didn't have anyone. Perhaps he had the girl, but even she would be sent off with a nice, loving family. The doctor felt fatigued with his blood loss and the salt and lemon sucking the moisture out of his body. His throat was dry and his head was pounding. What the fuck's taking you so bloody long, you bastard? Forgotten about me already? John had thought it sarcastically but eventually realized that it was more than possible. Perhaps he'd handed over the girl and simply deleted John from his mind palace. The doctor felt tears perk up for the first time, but he forced them back down. Nothing truly hurt like his heart did. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock had managed to make the girl drink a few sips of milk, but she spilled half of the mug all over herself. He tried to clean her up as well as he could, with towels, before laying her down in her basket again. 

 

He slept a few hours at best, contacting Molly as soon as he woke up to ask her to take care of the girl. Then, contacted Mycroft, to know where John was. 

 

The detective carried the basket to Molly's, giving her the skull and explaining her to let the girl play with it if she cried. He kissed the child's forehead before leaving.

 

 

Then, he went straight to the place Mycroft had told him, hurrying there with a gun, determined to save John.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

When the woman came back with bandages and some sort of rehydrating pain-soother, John didn't even bother to acknowledge her. Instead, he kept his eyes closed. It was past evening. Sherlock wouldn't come. He allowed for her conningly soft hands to rub across his skin, forcing himself to stay relaxed. He'd need another plan. She piked to her tippy-toes, nibbling at John's ear, "Better not try anything funny darling- not that you would anyways, Prince Charming isn't coming." She pulled back, grinning, "And if he does, then twice the fun, it is.” She untied the man's restraints, watching happily as he fell to the floor, disoriented and weak. "Aww, that's all it took, Johnny? A few knife marks, salt, and some lemon? Sherlock's already broken and weakened you down, then." John forced himself to his knees as he felt her fingers intertwine into his hair, pulling up at it harshly. "Come now, let's get you cleaned up- i'll wash you down myself." The woman dragged John into a hallway and behind a door, forcing him into a bathtub after stripping him down- all while the doctor wanted to do little else than crack her head on an edge. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Despite Mycroft's best attempts to convince his little brother to that it was best not to go after John on his own and that he should wait for team he had sent, the detective had refused. Any wasted minute could be a minute closer to John's death, or a minute he would spend in pain. So, instead, Sherlock went straight to the address. It was farther from him than he thought. It took a lot time, time that never seemed to end and Sherlock couldn't stop thinking about the vision of the kiss. It burned his pride, he felt immensely jealous. He loved John. He had sacrificed everything to John, while years. And how was he rewarded?

 

He had always protected him and his family. He shared a flat with the doctor, not because he needed his money to be able to rent it, but because he knew it would be good for the two of them to not live alone. He brought John on the cases because he knew he needed the adrenaline, but despite it, the detective had always made sure to protect his life. He had faked his death for this man. He had gone to Hell and came back for him, had been tortured, had relapsed into his demons, had accepted to be hurt him by him, beaten up by him. 

 

He had been hurt for and by John.

 

And how was he rewarded? For one mistake, for having been human and flesh, he was hated by the one he loved. But this same flesh was covered in scars for John's sake.

 

As he entered the building, his eyes were burning with a sparkle of determination. He would save John. One last time. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John was left to redress, his gun left on the bed. Apparently, no one truly cared if he shot anyone. John turned the gun on himself, finger on the trigger and barrel to his temple. He held his breath. No- he couldn't. He had things to do, people to live for. John changed into a button up shirt with a pair of jeans before he quietly unlocked the door, creeping along the passageway. "Well, well, Johnny- what're you doing out here? Could've sworn that you were smart enough to take a hint to stay in our room?" John turned at the voice, running towards her as he tackled her, forcing each and every ounce of strength he had into his emotions. "Oh, what now? Going to put a silly little bullet in my head? You're not strong enough, darling, Sherlock Holmes made you the weakest there ever was." She looked up at him, defiance clear in his eyes. Behind him a door opened, a tall shadow behind him with the click of a loaded gun. It didn't matter who the man was, even though his gait was oddly familiar. Right now, there was only one objective the doctor was concentrated on. He used his right hand to grip her by the collar of her shirt, his words in a sneer, "You listen here, you bloody sociopath. Sherlock made me the strongest and most beautiful man I'd have ever been in my life. He fixed me. And yeah, he has his ups and downs and he fucked up hard last time- but if you ever asked if I loved him," John lent closer, practically in her face, "I wouldn't hesitate to say yes. Because he is the most brilliant and human man i'll ever know." John pulled the trigger, her skull cracking was covered by the sound of the shot. The doctor checked her pulse weaken, his eyes ablaze- she could still hear him, but only for a few more seconds, "And I'll die for him a million times, caught up in your schemes, tortured again and again if it means that he can have his life because I bloody love him." John let go of the woman's collar, all life drained out of her now. Her body relaxed onto the cold floor and John stood, turning to face the man behind him- eyes closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously can't say no to her 
> 
> to all of you who are still reading this craziness of an rp: thank you. here's a flower and some chocolate to get you through this chapter.🌷🍫


	31. Chapter 31

John let go of the woman's collar, all life drained out of her now. Her body relaxed onto the cold floor and John stood, turning to face the man behind him- eyes closed.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

When Sherlock entered, he had never felt that lonely before. He saw John covering her body with his own, and for a second, he thought the doctor would turn over, and smirk. He would tell Sherlock was no longer needed, that he was just a replacement for his dead wife for a while until he found someone better. When he entered the room, and before he heard John's voice, Sherlock was sure it would be time. The day, that day he had forever feared, when he would no longer be able to bear being a second choice. He loved John, but as a human being, he could no longer bearing not being loved back.

 

And then, he heard John's words, and he froze, unable to act. Unable to do anything, without even flinching when the bullet destroyed the woman's skull. His heart accelerated, and he hurried to John, grabbing his face and kissing him, kissing him passionately, with as much despair as love, with as much madness as tenderness.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John's eyebrows furrowed as he felt lips on his own. But over that, they were familiar lips. John kept his eyes closed, comfortably relaxing as feeling safe, a protective cloud wrapped around him. He pushed the body that was attached to the set of lips against the wall, bringing his fingers up to curly, familiar hair. The doctor felt warmth around him, so much that it stifled his pain and forced him to ignore the blood that had come from his arm and hip, uncaring as the slid down and possible against the body. 

 

"I love you." John didn't know who this was. But he loved them. He loved them and would love them. It didn't matter if he remembered their face or who they were, because all John knew right now was that he loved the body that he was pressing to the wall and it was alive- just like John wanted it to be. Eventually, the kisses slowed, but John kept his eyes closed, knowing that his dream would dissipate if he opened them. He slackened against the body, hands around its waist and his lips swollen due to their touches. He fit perfectly. Chin to the other body's shoulder, hand intertwined as they both caught their breath. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock didn't answer, enjoying John saying theses three, tiny, stupid, crazy words. And he had said so many times he loved John. And he had proved it too many times. But when the kiss faded away, naturally, as finally, Sherlock could breath again and noticed he hadn't breathed since one endless year, as John's body was warm and breathing too. Sherlock tightened the embrace, the vulnerable happiness he had, in that instant. "...John." He whispered. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John matched the inhales and exhales of the body trapped to the wall, his eyelashes spanning the skins under his eyes beautifully. He gripped the elegant hand harder, feeling the scabs and callouses of the tips of its finger scratch slightly against the back of his palm. He pulled back, facing the figure but still keeping his eyes closed, knowing full well that he'd be brought to a reality he never wanted to be in if he opened his eyes. The soft word of his name reverberated through his hazy mind, a comforting blanket over all the pillows he was surrounded by. 

 

A faint and fond smile danced across his lips as he saw the body in his mind's eye, mapping out each cheekbone perfectly and painting the eyes the same way the glinted in real life. John reached out again, pulling the figure into a hug and pressing a final kiss to the body's lips before he whispered the word that fluttered to John's mind, taking away his pain for the brief amount of time, "Sherlock." Reluctantly, John opened his eyes, looking at the man in front of him. Sherlock. This time, only shock coursed through him and before he could help himself words of, "You came back?" slipped out of his mouth.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The question John asked only meant that the doctor hadn't known he was kissing Sherlock. But instead of hurting the detective, it made him feel proud. 

 

Because John kissed someone's lips, uncaring of who they were and pretending they were Sherlock's. To imagine he was close to him again. "Yes, I came back. I always come back." He whispered with a soft smile, kissing John's forehead carefully. "I'm sorry it took this long... But you clearly didn't need my help." He chuckled joyfully, to light the mood up. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John's frown deepened, registering truly what had happened. He looked over his shoulder and back at the body, remembering himself straddled over it as he had shot it. He turned back to Sherlock, taking two steps back to put some sort of distance between the two. "And you..." John prayed that it hadn't been so- that he hadn't just allowed himself vulnerable to his flatmate again, "You heard what I said?" John sighed, feeling energy seep out of him and rested his back against the wall. Light, hysteric laughs erupted from where he stood, knees bent and tailbone resting on wall. He looked up at Sherlock before looking down at his gun. "Oh for fucks sakes, again? I let you get close again? God- i'm such an idiot, no wonder you're so fascinated by me- how high could a man's level of stupidity get?" John slid down the wall and onto the grimy floor, not caring to hold himself up anymore as his laughter died off and tears rippled up to his eyes. "I know I'm practically out in the open right now, but please- if you need to hurt me, do it physically, yeah? Dunno if I can take any more of this emotional pain thing.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, before sliding on the floor as well, not wanting to have to look down at John. That way, they were almost at the same height. "Yes, I heard everything." He said softly, almost carefully. "But no. No, John. I'm not going to hurt you... I don't want this. I don't want you to be in pain." He paused. "I'm happy. It made me so happy to hear you and kiss you. Happier than I've ever been since you disappeared.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John couldn't help the little snort that came from him. "Yeah- and before that, you were happy with your lovely Max." He knew it was a low blow, but Sherlock deserved it. The doctor was duly surprised at how Moriarty and Isabella had both influenced him, turning him into some sort of machine as he sounded much more like them than he could've imagined. He pushed the thought down and locked it deep within him. John felt pain travel through him again- the emotional pain kind and wished that it was a pain from his shoulder, hip. For fucks sakes, he would've taken a stubbed toe over the pain that his chest was giving him. John breathed in deeply, guilt intertwined with a million other emotions seeping into his eyes as he looked away. "Sorry, that wasn't," he cleared his throat," I have no right over you- it doesn't matter." He stood, looking at the door. "Is she at Molly's?" 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock ignored what John had said about Max. It didn't matter anymore, harm was already done. He shook his head. "Moriarty's network is definitively destroyed. You no longer need your gun." He reached out, squeezed John’s trigger hand for a few seconds. "But don't forget my vow. What will happen to hundred of innocent people if you die, John. Keep living, or they'll die." He released his hand. "And you know me. You know Mycroft. Good-bye, John." Then, he left. He wanted to pick Rosie up, and spend time with her. Love her.

 

It was the least that John owed him.

 

-x-x-x-x

When had Sherlock ever been any good at keeping vows? The doctor looked up, seeing a brief glance of Mary in front of him before she too disappeared once more.

 

"What the bloody hell do you want from me, Sherlock?!" John felt his frustration hit its high, bubbling over as he watched the man walk away. His voice echoed through the abandoned area, so loud that his ears almost hurt. He stalked towards the detective, grabbing him by the collar and looking at him evenly. "Do you want to see me walk with no soul? Being tortured over and over as I wake from nightmares that will haunt me for years to come? And even then, God knows that I won't get over them! So tell me what the never-ending fuck you want? At least if I live by that you'll let me put a bullet in my head and call it good!”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock didn't believe he would someday be able to do this, but he pushed John away, breaking the contact. "I don't want anything from you, expect knowing you're still alive. That's all. And even if what happened to you is horrible, you'll move on. I know you, you are strong. Good-bye." He said once more, sharper. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked at Sherlock's retreating figure, wanting nothing more to follow the man and beat him bloody. He kept himself in check, though as he simply slid down, sitting on the dusty gravel. He stared at the ground, uncaring when his body protested. Perhaps if his wounds were exposed long enough as they were now, he'd get Sisyphus and simple die then and there. Or perhaps from malnutrition and starvation. Simply depression was enough to shorten his lifetime. John laid down, looking up at the sky, its cloudy blue reminding him of what Sherlock and John had shared inside the building. The doctor closed his eyes, not wanting to remember. Not wanting to thing. And simply not wanting to be. He whispered to himself because no one else would listen. "Bye, Sherlock." 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock knew he would start to cry if he thought about the kiss he had shared with John, about these magical seconds when everything made sense, and came back like it used to be. Like it should. Simply loving each other. But despite what John had said to Moriarty, he didn't actually love the detective. If he did, he wouldn't have acted the way he did. And now, Sherlock had to handle this, handle living alone, because he had a girl to take care of. 

 

He picked her up at Molly's, making her promise to never tell anyone about this. Then, she brought Rosie at home, who was hugging the skull, half asleep. He prepared a soup to her, adding cheese he let melt so she could get her dairy in a new way. He put it in a cup, and put a straw so she could drink, in the meantime he would buy everything a toddler needed. 

 

Sherlock watched her face and strived to not think about John. He loved him immensely. But he couldn't. He could no longer lose everything for his sake. 

 

Rosie winced and pushed the soup away, clearly disliking the taste. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🍿🍿🍿 Im lazy as fuck and camille is needy as fuck, i think we work well together, though


	32. Chapter 32

Sherlock watched her face and strived to not think about John. He loved him immensely. But he couldn't. He could no longer lose everything for his sake. 

 

Rosie winced and pushed the soup away, clearly disliking the taste. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The Sun set and John felt the granite poking at his back as if they were knives mistaken for pinpricks. He got to his legs and forced himself to walk. Anywhere. He didn't trust himself. But wasn't that the whole point? Such a lack of trust so his feet should walk off a ledge and John should follow soon after. But it wasn't that easy. It was never that easy.

 

John found himself facing a door. More specifically the door. The place for people like John Watson. The place for the desperate. The terrified. The ones with nowhere else to run. Two Two One B Baker Street.

 

 

John opened the door, keeping his footsteps light. There was no way Sherlock would want John back now. The doctor was too bloody. Too broken. He needed his phone- at least he'd have that back, then. And Sherlock had accidentally kept it. He walked up the stairs, knowing that the detective most likely would've gone out for some sort of chemical aid. He opened the oddly unlocked door and walked in.

 

At least there wasn't a queue. 

 

Not a queue, but a baby. John stared at the frowning child in shock as her emotions turned from a deep frown- much akin to one he'd see in the mirror after Sherlock would've exploded the kitchen. He couldn't help the word that slipped out of his mouth, his mind on overdrive- his body on fire, all from simply looking at the little girl propped up on the familiar sofa her toothless smile on display. If aged, that smile would've looked just like... "Mary?"

 

The doctor walked closer to her, kneeling beside her as he did so. He didn't touch her, knowing that he was the grimiest, most contaminated thing the house- and that was most likely saying something. "Hello, sweetheart. Sherlock said your dad picked you up? Don't know what's up with that, but you're here now for the time being, huh?" The girl giggled, glee lighting up her face as if her true father was talking to her. "Yeah, yeah- I know, Sherlock is such a silly man. Do you know where he is? He's got my mobile and I need it- 'm more or less of a mess right now.” The girl's grin didn't falter, instead fine, soft lines around her eyes appeared as her smile widened impossibly, she reacher her hand out, touching John's face, cupping it in her small hands. 

 

John looked at her, amusement falling off his face as he only felt tears run down his cheeks. He closed his eyes and only opened them when he felt the small chubby hands brush across his skin, messing up the straight trails of liquid that the tears left. He looked at the small frown line that appeared between her eyebrows while her eyes were determinedly looking to John's tears, her hands rubbing into his skin as if his sadness would be taken away if she could get the tears gone.

 

John pulled his face back slightly, a small smile being stretched out onto his lips at the pure wholesomeness of the girl. He rubbed his face into his sleeve- her making a noise of protest as the comforting and interesting man in front of her pulled away. He turned back to her, leaning forward and taking up the same position as he had done before. She used her cloudy blue eyes to look at John's stormy blue eyes as if doing a check for tears. With a finality, she reached her hands out the doctor's face, wiping at his cheeks for good measure before she pulled back looking at him contently. "Better?" As if she understood him, the girl smiled her grin, sending a pang through John's heart at the familiarity, but he returned the smile anyways, feeling happy for the first time since the building.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock hadn't left the living-room since for a long while. He just needed to prepare his room for it to become Rosie's, in the meantime. He would do some basic shopping for her later. But when he came back, he froze at the doorway. John. John was here, and he was playing with Rosie, as if he knew she had the same blood that him, as if he knew she was everything that Sherlock ever had, and tried to take it away, to destroy the tiny home the detective had built. He knew he would never have children, but he could have Rosie. "What are you doing here?" He said coldly, as he went straight to Rosie' side, and picked her up. To keep her far away from John. "You can take the stuff you want in that flat. Leave, after." He muttered, stroking the girl's back. "But don't sneak in my flat and touch my daughter again." He hissed. John had taken enough from him. He had taken years of his life, and he had taken his happiness away. So, no. He wouldn't let him have the girl.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked to the table behind the two, where the ring that had once held promise still laid. He looked back at the girl, imagining all the beautiful things that he and Sherlock could've done. Pancakes in the morning, forcing both her and Sherlock to eat- her first crime scene. He gaze focused back on Sherlock, his mind thinking, "Oh how terribly nice this could have been." Of course, he didn't say it out loud- instead, what came out was unknowingly vulnerable eyes and words that didn't match his expression, "I didn't touch her, you git." Sherlock had to have known that wasn't what John had wanted to say. With a lingering look at the girl, who was now frowning, uncomfortable with the tension in the air, he began walking. He smiled at her, a small comfort that she returned, but even that soon turned into a childish frown as soon as John turned away. 

 

She looked up at Sherlock questioningly as John travelled up the stairs. The doctor froze when he heard her voice ring out a clear, "Shezza?" She turned and pointed at the doctor, intelligent eyes shining but a question on her face nonetheless, "Papa?" John kept his back turned as he felt the tears overwhelm him. They leaked out the corner of his eyes, sliding down his face, and leaving their marks on the wooden stair. He didn't even try to breathe, knowing that it'd be impossible to do so without giving away the fact that he was crying. Even though Sherlock probably already knew. Instead, John kept his head down and walked at a faster pace up the stairs and into his room.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock saw the immense sadness in John's eyes. But he tried to ignore it,  as he pressed a kiss to the girl's cheek. How such a brilliant, clever girl. He waited until John had left to nod. "Yes, Rosie. He's Papa. Your Papa." He whispered sadly. "But you will live with me from now. I can't... He can't take care of you. He doesn't know how to take care of the ones he loves." Sherlock stroked the blond hair of the girl slowly. She looked so much like her father. 

 

-x-x-x-x

John hastily packed his bag, stuffing anything and everything that didn't remind him of Sherlock into it. The stupid detective could keep the rest. He grabbed his dog tags and his pictures from his time in Afghanistan before he lugged it all over his shoulders, ignoring his weakened state. He kept his eyes low on the ground when crossed downstairs again, where the girl was still in Sherlock's hands. Ignoring the new, most painful stab that happened as she called out to him using the word papa, he packed his toiletries, taking one final look around. He didn't even bother going into his and Sherlock's room. He dared a look at her before he left, the girl's childish face lighting up with glee as she had managed to catch the stranger's attention. "Papa!" She reached out to him, only being held back by the way Sherlock held her hips. "Sorry, sweetheart, 'm not your dad." She looked to him stubbornly as she repeated his word angrily. He leant into her, whispering lightly, "Take good care of Sherlock here, alright? He can be a bloody git, but he makes the best tea." With a wink, he turned, allowing the forced amusement for her sake fall down and off his face as he climbed the stairs back down. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock kissed Rosie's forehead, and once John left, finally, despite the emptiness it created inside the detective's heart, he sighed with relief. "Don't call him Papa again " He whispered softly. "It's true he's your father, but don't say it. It makes him sad." He tried to explain, hoping she'd understand. "And now, what would you like to do? Are you hungry?" He gently tickled her belly. "Smile to me, please. I need it. I need to see your smile." Sherlock felt broken, but held together by his love for the girl. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pour ma petite... abeille 🐝 (could not find puce emoji)


	33. Chapter 33

"And now, what would you like to do? Are you hungry?" He gently tickled her belly. "Smile to me, please. I need it. I need to see your smile." Sherlock felt broken, but held together by his love for the girl. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John made it to a B&B, which had be somehow prepaid for. Mycroft, obviously. But John thanked the man in his mind anyway. He fell onto the bed after throwing his bag onto it, staring up at the ceiling as his memories of the girl flashed over her eyes. Everything about her was familiar. Just too familiar. John shook his head slightly, closing his eyes in attempts to sleep. 

 

It didn't work.

 

Hours later, John was still faced up a the ceiling, praying that he could have his Sherlock back again and not the Sherlock he had now. Hell- he didn't have a Sherlock now, it was just that this Sherlock wasn't the same he had been. John sighed and got up, deciding to go out for a walk before that was cut out of his head by a stab of pain from- everywhere. John exhaled, lifting his jumper to look down at the carving. There was Jim's. There was Isabella's. Now he only needed Sherlock's to complete the trio of people who have hurt me the most. At least all three of them had nice handwriting, they managed to look tidy. His thoughts earned a hoarse laugh from him.

 

How broken John Watson was. 

 

And who was there to fix him?

 

-x-x-x-x

 

At least, Sherlock could take care of a Watson. Even if it wasn't the one he had always wanted, he loved this one immensely. After John left the flat, he bought things online for the toddler's well being. As he didn't know what she needed, he ordered many plushies, blankies, toys, sippy cups, baby bottles. He made sure they were all made with safe and natural material. Only the best for his daughter. He also chose onsies, trousers, skirts.

 

But he knew John was missing. Rosie's father was missing, and no matter the amount of love he could give to her, John would still be missing.

 

The detective warned Lestrade he would only take cases at home from now, and he explained to Mrs.Hudson there would be noises and sobs nights and days. 

 

He paced into the flat holding her, played violin for her. Wanted to replace the one missing, but his absence was heavy in the silence. Sherlock tidied up the flat, removed the dangerous chemicals and locked them into closets. He also removed Max's stuffs, and locked everything in carton boxes he hid under his bed. At night, he opened it and remembered.

 

 

He stole a jumper John had left in his room, and slept with it in his bed. But he couldn't find his dog tag, no matter how long he looked for them. The jumper stopped to smell like John's, but Sherlock kept it. He missed his love more than he could express.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

After months of living alone and holed up in his room, John Watson had healed enough to get a pint with Greg. The DI didn’t ask about Sherlock. Nor did he ask about John. Mycroft had filled him in, then. The first time the doctor saw his friend, he smiled a bit awkwardly, almost as if he was a relative he only saw once every few or so years. 

 

That wasn’t the case after Greg had returned Johns shaky smile with a warm grin. John forced himself to relax as he sipped at his beer, making small talk with the DI. And there it was. “Hosting a Christmas party at mine, you’re coming.” John looked into his pint, wishing that it was simply drown him. He looked up at the detective inspector. “Nah mate, I really can’t.” Greg had simply held up a hand. “Sorry, not negotiable, Watson, we’re going to get you back on your toes.”

 

And that was how John had ended up standing on the scruffy mat outside his friends apartment, holding a bottle of fine wine (Sherlock’s favourite, but John didn’t acknowledge that fact.) He stared at the door, hearing the sounds of Mrs Hudson’s chatter and Greg’s polite laughter- along with hints of sound he couldn’t make out.

He knocked on the door, not knowing if he was praying for Sherlock to be there or not. It was leaning towards the former. He missed the man. More than words could ever try to describe. The door was opened by Mycroft, who smiled (surprisingly) pleasantly at John, moving slightly to welcome the man in. John nodded, returning the smile, though his eyes didn’t hold the same warmth as Mycroft’s (surprisingly) did. He walked in, Greg approaching him and greeting him with the smile that the rest of the room shared. John tried his best to paint the same on his face, but didn’t do so until Mrs Hudson approached, pulling him down into a smothering hug, holding him as if she had almost lost him.

 

Well, she nearly had, but she didn’t have to know that. John felt the warmth finally seep into him, feeling at home and around people he knew. He chatted with them until he heard a baby coo. John looked up, looking towards the sound, meeting the joyous eyes of the girl, held by the long, pale arms that belonged to the man that haunted his dreams.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

When Lestrade had told him to come at home to Christmas, Sherlock refused at first. He had spent the last few months more or less locked up in his flat, taking care of Rosie and solving cases from his living room. John's shadow was in every sparkle of the girl's eyes, and in every furniture and scent of Baker Street. But slowly, the detective get used to live alone, and the flat became his own and Rosie's. The girl's smile wasn't a reminder of John's, it was just her's. 

 

He didn't forget the doctor, but he learned how to live with his memory without drowning in it. He hadn't the choice, he had someone to live for, now.

 

As that's why he eventually accepted to go at Lestrade's. Because he wanted Rosie to have a proper Christmas, and that he was too exhausted and busy to plan it on his own. And also because the people there were Rosie's family. Mrs.Hudson, Mycroft... Greg. All of them.

 

 

He had dressed her up nicely, curled her hair up. He was always amazed to see how tiny her hands were. "Stay calm." He whispered, as he felt she was squirming in his arms. "We'll open the gifts at midnight, I already told yo..." Sherlock turned his head, noticing John. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> camillllee go to slleepppp youre so ridiculousss
> 
> 🌺🌸🌻💐 The last time I handed out flowers, one of my readers ate them. I'm giving you more of a variety, now, hope you like it, dear reader.


	34. Chapter 34

"We'll open the gifts at midnight, I already told yo..." Sherlock turned his head, noticing John. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The doctor took his gaze off of Sherlock, ripping his eyes away and looking back at Mrs Hudson. She was still chattering away about how, when she’d ran a drug cartel, christmases were never nice. It was the same story he’d heard two years ago, his last Christmas spent peacefully with Sherlock, their fingers intertwined as John smiled at her, squeezing Sherlock’s hand every time he said something about her story that was a bit not good. He lifted the beer he’d been handed, bringing it up to his lips as he nodded at her, laughing and making appropriate sounds when necessary, thought he wasn’t truly paying attention. 

 

Greg left to go talk to Mycroft, the two of them exceedingly “friendly” with each other. Mrs Hudson went to call her sister, wishing her a merry Christmas. It was just Sherlock and John whom were left, Rosie clinging to the sofa and babbling happily. They sat across from each other, neither of them looking at the other. John looked down at the baby. Sherlock’s baby. If Donovan where here, she would’ve very much said “A baby? How does someone like you get a baby? John couldn’t help the smile that arose on his face, grinning to himself as her voice reverberated in his head. Out of the corner of his eyes, the doctor saw the toddle coo before the awkwardly set one foot, then the other. 

 

John looked at her head on, his smile widening as she looking back up at him, glowing with pride. Glancing up to Sherlock, he looked at her, but didn’t make any sort of move get any closer. “Are those your first steps, darling?” The girl babbled back intelligently as if she understood John, whose face felt as if it were about to split, his teeth on full display and his own pride for her only forced his grin wider. As much as the doctor wanted to crouch next to her, hold her hand as she moved, he knew it wouldn’t be welcome. So instead, John took another swing off his drink, cooing at her as she walked her beautiful first steps.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock strived to not look to John and deduce his last months, no matter how much he wanted to. It was the doctor's privacy, now. But when he noticed in the corner of his eyes the attempt of Rosie to walk, his heart squeezed painfully. He couldn't just ignore it, so, he turned his head, to watch her. A soft, weak smile appeared on his lips, but he tried to hide from the doctor. After all, there were thousands of babies learning to walk. There was nothing extraordinary. It was just... "Amazing. You are amazing." He couldn't help but saying, blushing immediately after, and looking away. 

-x-x-x-x

 

John hesitantly looked up the the face of the voice, the deep baritone running through him like hot chocolate on a blizzard on a day. The multicolored eyes wee averted, but John couldn’t help but notice the small glint of pride that showed there, mimicking Johns feeling. He watched as the blush travelled from the mans jaw, appearing on his cheeks as his uncalled for embarrassment shone through. John smiled, feeling heat rise up into his own face as soon as he realized that he was practically checking the man out. 

 

The doctor averted his gaze, looking back at Rosie, whom had now taken steps away from the sofa, still facing John as if she was going to come to him. John leans forward in his armchair, bending down a bit. “No, no sweetheart, you’re supposed to go to him. The tall, pretty bloke with the ridiculous cheekbones.” He pulled back, his blush brighter and darker, eyes wide with disbelief of what he’d just said. “Oh shit-“ Rosie’s face scrunched, feeling the sudden shyness that the room held. She confusedly looked at Sherlock before she turned and looked back at John, asking the both the same question. _What the bloody hell is going on?_ John closed his eyes, tilting his head to one side as he shrugged. 

 

This seemed to be enough and her face relaxed as she let go of the sofa, wobbling a bit. John subconsciously moved forwards in his seat, ready to catch her if need be. The girl grinned up at him, the universe shining through her face as she took another wobbly step, and another, uncaring of John’s attempts to reroute her to Sherlock. She reached a hand out, cooing a small papa, losing her balance as she did so. Johns hands shot out, his fingers wrapping around her hands to help her up. “That’s right,  come on sweetheart, another step, there you go.” The doctor stood, bending over and still allowing for her to hold his hands as he gently and slowly guided her to Sherlock. She smiled up at him, while John looked at his expression from where he was. The doctor exhaled a bit- coming back to reality as he forced himself off of cloud nine, trying to shake himself of the girls grip. “Sorry, ‘lock, you being her father and all- I should, erm, sorry.” He wiggled his best out of the girls grip, who in turn frowned a mix of Johnsonian and Sherlockian frown. The doctor walked back to his armchair, feeling embarrassed and guilty, though glee and happiness underlined it all.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock was blushing, hearing the accidental words escaping John's lips. From the corner of his eyes, he watched the girl's steps, careful and ready to hold her if she had to fall. He didn't try to force her to walk to his side, though. After all, she was John's daughter, and she seemed so happy to see him again. The detective should have felt jealous, but he didn't. He had the opportunity to spend all his time with her already. As John apologized, Sherlock called him. "No, wait!" An instinctive fear of losing him again made him look to the doctor. "...I don't mind. I really don't. Come back here, she wants to be with you." He smiled shyly at the man he still loved. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked up to Sherlock when he spoke, breaking eye contact with the girl who’s eyes mimicked his own. From where his head was resting on his hand, John observed the detective, trying to apply the mans methods onto himself. End conclusion: ??? John shifted lightly, moving back to the edge of his seat, wanting to do nothing than to take the man up on his offer. The doctor trained hi storming blue eyes on the detective’s own bright ones. Was his smile... shy? This was odd. This was worse than odd. This was something that John wanted but would never allow himself to have. The doctor returned the smile, using his right side of his lips to tug a display of goodwill onto his face, teeth showing lightly and his whole face thick with charm. He looked back down at her as he slid off his sofa. 

 

“What’s her name?” The girl crawled closer, as John crouched next to her, grunting a bit a he sat down, his hand still a bit itchy and sore from where he’d had a knife cut into it. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” She grinned, looking up at him as if he held anything and everything she could ever want. “Papa!” John felt the word stab deep into his heart, his smile faltering slightly as his blue eyes darkened so that they almost looked brown as he watched images of Mary clutching her torso, cradling their unborn child while trying her best to hang through, just to thank John. He inhaled shakily, feeling panic rise up, his world beginning to spin a bit. Until he heard the voice slip out a quiet little, “Shezza?” 

 

John opened his eyes, looking down at the girl, who looked up at John in question, though she was asking the question to Sherlock. John smiled again, feeling small hands on his own as she pulled herself to a standing position, tilting her head up. John tilted his head down, allowing for the child to press a comforting kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, love- but don’t worry about me, yeah? Not your job to pick up after me. In fact,” John stood, grin on his face once more, “Think I should pick you up.” He reached down, hooking his hands under her arms, keeping his hands soft and lovely. He held her above his head, smiling up at her as she giggled, cooing randomness. “You like that love? That-“ John paused, “is how Sherlock felt every time he had to look at me. Poor bloke, yeah? Or do you like it up there?” John bent his elbow, bringing her down so that he could blow on her tummy, making her giggle and squeal. “Yeah, alright, enough fun for now- you’re much too skinny. How’s about we try something decently good?” John set her back down, ignoring her little protest before asking Sherlock, “Can she have oatmeal? Mrs Hudson brought some...” It was odd to be asking Sherlock Holmes permission, but then again, John had done stranger.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock watched the adorable sight of Rosie and John. They got along so well, and for a few seconds, he lost his smile, wondering how it would have been, how much things would have been different if he had told the doctor the truth. He cleared his throat, avoiding John’s question about her name- not wanting to lie to the doctor any further. Maybe the blond soldier would end up understanding, but Sherlock didn't think so. "Yes, you can give her biscuits." He added with a sigh. "Well, if you manage to make her eat. She is.... Very picky with me." Sherlock remembered this struggle to get her to swallow some healthy food. He winked to the girl. He didn't feel sad to see she preferred John, he felt guilty to have removed her from the doctor. But when he did so, he thought he was acting the best. "The both of you are adorable." He whispered, unsure if John heard or not.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

"Mrs Hudson!? We've just started walking, think she deserves a biscuit?" John grinned at Mrs H, beaming with pride for a daughter that wasn't even his. Their landlady practically danced her way to the glowing pair, who were holding hands. The girl forced him to hold her hand, but she was still quite tired. Nonetheless, she was stubborn, adamantly crawling with three limbs as she made her way over. "Mzz tch!" John's eyes crinkled as he listened to her repeat their landlady's over and over, tugging at his hand in order to get his to crouch. This bloody brilliant baby. Things did happen when you live with Sherlock Holmes. Or- lived. 

 

The thought turned John's smile sour for seconds as he crouched, but was then met with the girl's excited face. She put one of her hands on the doctor's knee and got closer, pushing up with her one hand while the other was uncompromisingly wrapped around the index finger of John's left hand. She looked down, a frown of concentrating over her face as she set one foot in front of another, hobbling her way over to Mrs Hudson while still gripping at John for support. John kneeled back down next to her, looking at her while Mrs Hudson cooed. "Aww, Rosie, you're absolutely amazing- you deserve all the biscuits i'll ever make- oh! that reminds me, John. I've got this fantastic recipe for a red velvet if you ever swing by. God knows it's been a while since we baked together." The doctor felt himself flush as his secret revealed itself to the world before he shrugged lightly, picking up Rosie as he stood again. He bent down to kiss his ex- landlady's cheek. "I'm looking for a place right now, i'll stop by as soon as I get settled in Mrs Hudson." She grinned, pointing over to the biscuit box and waving at Rosie, walking into the kitchen to finish setting up the snacks tray. John bounced Rosie (Such a pretty name for a pretty girl,) on his hip a bit, walking towards the box and opening it. "You think you can reach in there, sweetheart?" John stuck his hand into the jar, pulling out a biscuit and waving it to get her attention. She reached out, babbling lightly as she protested, "Papa, pwease! Pwease papa, pwease." John conceded, handing over the sweet before he leant in, speaking conspiratively as he walked back into the living room of Greg's house- looking around the tiniest bit- not wanting Sherlock to hear his next words, "You know, Rosie Love- if you ever need our Sherlock to do something, just hand him one of these, they're his favourites." She looked up in wonder as she nibbled at her biscuit, nodding as if she actually understood. John set her down on the carpet, leaning against the edge of the sofa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize that this fic is filled with mistakes. i'll probably go back through, once we're done, and fix all that up. but maybe not, life does have a way to get in the way of plans.


	35. Chapter 35

She looked up in wonder as she nibbled at her biscuit, nodding as if she actually understood. John set her down on the carpet, leaning against the edge of the sofa.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock couldn’t ever rip his away away from watching John and Rosie because it had became a part of himself. Always having an eye on the girl, never leaving her alone, never focusing on something else enough that he would forget about her. But he trusted John with his life, and therefore, after a while, he allowed himself to relax.

 

For the first time since Rosie moved in his flat, he relaxed, without fearing a disaster could happen, without having to check on her. And it was good. He loved the girl immensely, but he was just human- though he’d never admit it. Closing his eyes, he took deep breaths, his mind dwelling on useless details, muting the room around him. It was good.

 

Eventually, he opened his eyes again, as he heard John getting closer. And obviously, Rosie didn't seem to have any difficulties with eating. The detective rolled his eyes theatrically. 

 

-x-x-x-x

John huffed a laugh, happening to catch the dramatic roll of Sherlock's eyes. He quickly stifled it. Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. It wasn't a thing. It didn't work because one of them was a bastard liar and the other was a blind idiot. John looked at Sherlock, taking in the smaller, finer details, dark spots on pale, smooth skin- a slight flush coating his face. It was Sherlock's after-case haze. The detective usually stayed up nights, getting barely any sleep while he thought through his cases- developing circled under his eyes. The marks usually stayed until after he finished the case, the flush joining it when he finally solved it- eyes crinkling and lips curling up into a Sherlock chuckle. It was the most beautiful Sherlock. Exhausted but completely content. John felt his eyes brighten, eyes unable to tear away from the god-like figure that was reclined in front of him.

 

"I've been told that it's terribly 'creepy' stare at someone for such an extended period of time, Doctor Watson." John averted his gaze, his true embarrassment not being shown on his face. Rosie was now playing with a bee plushie, a high-quality children's medical play-set surrounding her. The doctor stood, brushing off his pants, "Erm, I wasn't-" Mycroft simply held out a hand, forcing the ex-army surgeon to pause midsentence.  Mycroft looked to Greg, who himself was standing closer to the man than a "friend" should've been. That was if Mycroft Holmes even kept friends. But this seemed like more. Greg nodded, tilting his towards John in signal to continue. Mycroft sighed, continuing, "We are all very glad that you're well, John. Merry Christmas." The doctor smiled, nodding, and mouthing to Greg as the two of them turned to go to the balcony. “What?!! Pints ASAP.” John turned, glancing at Sherlock again before sitting down next to Rosie, teaching her how to use the fake stethoscope. 

 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

 

Sherlock noticed the way John looked at him, and it made his heartbeat accelerate. If only it was as easy as reaching out, opening his heart and being vulnerable. But they were two big idiots, unable to talk to each other without hurting, especially when they shared the same views. So, instead, Sherlock stayed in his spot, observing the doctor playing with Rosie, hesitating, attempting to find his words, and failing to find the perfect ones. "It's almost a joke." He said softly after a while. "The bee. Two, two, one, Bee. Baker Street." He smiled, holding back an innocent laugh. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John let out the little laugh that Sherlock held back, his eyes lighting up with ridiculousness. True, Sherlock had never been the best at jokes, but it had never kept the man from trying. John leant sideways from where he was kneeling next to Rosie, his face angled to press a fond kiss to Sherlock's cheek. No. Sherlock. The doctor pulled back as if the air around Sherlock was toxic. "Shit, bloody fuck, i'm sorry." He hastily stood. This had been a bad idea. A terrible idea. He'd almost admitted to himself that he still loved Sherlock. Hell, he'd almost admitted to Sherlock that he was still loved by the doctor. Rosie mumbled from where she sat, administering an injection to her bee before attempting to put the leather stitched band-aid over its puncture, ignoring John. "I should go," he mumbled to himself, "I should really go- I have to," the doctor moved to look around Greg- trying to bid his thanks and goodbye.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock had felt his heart erratically beat, his pulse going wild as John was close, closer. Almost. Then, everything ended up as quickly as it begun, the bubble of happiness and innocence had been broken. Again.

 

Sherlock looked down to Rosie, then up to John. "I... wait." He took a deep breath. "She... She is everything I have. She is my whole life, but I need." He paused, shaking his head. "It's stupid. I was being stupid. Forget. You wouldn't have accepted, anyway." Sherlock bit his lower lip. "I hadn't been on a crime scene since months. I trust nobody enough to let them take care of her, but you... Could you...?" He asked shyly. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John couldn't help but look at the detective, eyes wide. What the bloody fuck was wrong with them? He had once just been a man looking for a flat, now he had a dead wife, a dead child, and a dead friend. All because Mike Stamford had accidentally ran into him. John looked down at Rosie, who was babbling away intelligently at her bee. "Erm- yeah, yes. I'll just, I'll be back." John needed to make a call. He needed to talk to someone. A person that would always matter. The doctor went into the open balcony, scrolling down his contact list to Molly Hooper. He called, silently waiting for her to pick up before he sighed with relief, realizing the call had connected. 

 

 

"John? Everything alright?" Her timid voice rang through the small speaker, John relaxing as he felt himself safe and sure once more. "Yeah, we're alright." He paused, "Why aren't you at the party? We all miss you, you know?" There was an elongated pause from the other side. "Hello?"

 

"Oh, yeah, yes- i've just been really busy, so..." John nodded to himself, knowing how hard Molly worked. "If I could help you clean up, do you think you'd be able to make it?" A shuffle of papers was heard, "No! No, we're alright, i'll be there in a bit. Who's it at?" The doctor smiled, "Greg's house- oh, and by the way, I'd really like to get Rosie's name embroidered on a little baby blanket, what's her last name?" There was no reply, John looked down at his phone taking it away from his ear before bringing it back. "Molly?" 

 

"Sorry! I'm just distracted, Rosie's name is Rosamund- Rosamund Mary Watson.”

 

What? What? The doctor heard Molly come up with excuses, nervously chuckling to herself as she tried to convince John. "Oh, did I say Watson- apologies, I meant Holmes.... John? John?!" The doctor ended the call, gripping the phone tighter before he walked back into the room. He forced himself to sit next to Rosie, not even bothering to look at Sherlock as he did so. He lifted her into his lap, looking down at her as she looked back up, eyes drawn in confusion as John felt tears slip out of his eyes and down his cheeks, falling on the girl's face. She wiped them around, spreading them instead of getting them away. John sniffled, using his free hand to wipe the tears back before he held her up, gently placing her over his shoulder and hugging her as if he'd never see her again.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock didn't understand John's sudden reaction. Something had happened while the few minutes he had left the room, but the detective couldn't deduce what. "John." He asked, sounding as much worried as he was. "Why are you crying? John. Tell me, I..." He looked to Rosie, to the way he was holding her. But it was impossible. How could he have figured it out? 

 

"You don't have to take care of her." He got up, trying to pick Rosie up, feeling uncomfortable with John holding her. As if he was going to steal her from him. "Give her back to me, John. I've changed my mind.”

-x-x-x-x

 

He whispered soothing words as she didn't bother protesting, allowing herself to be kept safe and warm by her father. "Shh, it's alright, sweetheart- papa's here, yeah? I wouldn't ever let anything get you." It seemed as if she'd started sucking at her thumb, eyes open but quiet and calm. He rested his head on her back, feeling the warmth. Alive. My child's alive. John closed his eyes, uncaring of the tears that slipped under them, he whispered soft nothings, truly not giving any damn fuck about the world around them, knowing only that she needed to be protected.

 

Because she was his. His blood, his family. John didn't even have a family. He had gotten close so many bloody times, but now- he had a daughter. "Oh god, Rosie, I missed you so much, I missed you so much." The doctor's words came out wet as he allowed himself pain and emotions that he'd kept bottled up for years. The first time he'd cried over Mary and their daughter had been on Sherlock's shoulder- and that had been the last time as well. John grieved, mixing it with relief and happiness, as he finally forced himself to calm, setting her down between his legs again. "Papa!" John smiled, his eyes hazy as he felt his crashed and destroyed world reconstruct around him. "Yeah, that's me, love." Rosie turned, looking at a direction, probably towards Sherlock considering that she said, "Dada!" John sighed, yeah, as if. The girl reached out for Sherlock as he himself looked distressed, trying to comfort both her parents at the same time. John didn't bother resisting Sherlock, not even caring that he had hidden it from him at right now. 

 

He was with the man he trusted, surrounded by people he knew, and his daughter was breathing with a steady heartbeat. John looked up at Sherlock, who held Rosie in his hands. "She's alive, 'lock," The syllables were broken with emotion and in a sudden, John felt fatigued. He stood, not reaching for Rosie, but instead for Sherlock, pulling his family of three into a hopefully never-ending hug. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock gasped when John hugged him. He had been terrified of the doctor's reaction, as he clearly recognized the girl belonged to him, and for a while, the detective imagined his life without her. Empty. Alone. But then, the warmth of John's body, and Rosie's tiny hand in his own surrounded him. He closed his eyes, breathing out shakily. "Yes, she is. She's alive." Tentatively, he wrapped his arms around John, half sandwiching the girl between them. "She's alive. We are all alive." He whispered. "The three of us." The detective couldn't relax, couldn't believe it was actually happening. But he still enjoyed this instant, as much as possible. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The sound of a throat clearing was heard throughout the room, the snobby Mycroft Holmes losing his patience for human chivalries. It was needless to say that John was very much done with Mycroft as well. The doctor wrapped his hands tighter around his trio, still very careful not to put too much pressure on Rosie. "Fuck. Off. Mycroft." John pulled back, looking down at Rosie, who only seemed to be in a perpetual state of confusion. She brought her hand to Sherlock's jaw, looking up in a what's wrong with him, "Dada Shezza?" She pointed at John with her other hand, eyes still quizzically turned at Sherlock. 

 

They were alive. All three of them. John winced lightly to himself as he felt his knee ache slightly, the overwhelming emotions reminding it of only pain. It didn't matter. Because John wouldn't let a scratch on Rosie the same way that both he and Sherlock had been "scratched." Perhaps, for this one Christmas, John would stop with the sadness. The hatred, the anger, all of it. Just for a day. He needed the break. "This isn't enough to fix us, Sherlock," he warned before moving his head closing, tilting his head, giving the detective plenty of time to pull away before he connected their lips together. Just one night. He'd trust Sherlock for just one more night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🍪🍪🍪 i hope you had fun kiddos. it's a prettty chill chapter, isn't it?


	36. Chapter 36

"This isn't enough to fix us, Sherlock," he warned before moving his head closing, tilting his head, giving the detective plenty of time to pull away before he connected their lips together. Just one night. He'd trust Sherlock for just one more night. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock kissed John back immediately, unable to not answer to the kiss he had dreamed of this so long. He knew it couldn't just erase the pain and the anger, but it was something. A beginning. Sherlock promised himself to be careful, of every movements, aware of every words to not hurt John again. And right now, the words were vain. He closed his eyes, kissing John, enjoying the sensation of his lips. He forced himself to somewhat relax, not wanting to set anyone off with the tenseness, allowing for the comfort of his John Watson to run through him.

 

One last time, he'd forget himself for this man's happiness. One last time, he would allow himself to get hurt for his sake, to sacrifice his own being for his protection. One last time, he'd allow himself to get hooked on sentiments. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John pulled back, his breathing and his pulse elevated as he did so. Looking down at Rosie who sat contently in Sherlock's arms, playing with the detective's hair. It was insane how alike father and daughter were- taking pure joys in playing with the hair of the man they both loved. Even under that, though- John couldn't help but see Mary in the baby's face. A perfect mix of John, Mary, and somehow Sherlock. 

 

The doctor took a step or two back, turning to face the rest of their company with a smile. "It's a good time to start believing in Christmas miracles, now isn't it?" John's smile didn't bother to falter as the rest of them only stared back with shock, only Mycroft smirking the tiniest of bits at John. bastard. 

 

"Err- hello? I've walked in on something important, haven't I?" John looked over at Molly, unsure on what to feel about her. It was evident that she had known. But then again, tonight was the night that he wasn't going to give a bloody fuck. "I brought cake?" John walked towards her, taking the bag from her hand and welcoming her in, Mrs Hudson followed his lead and took her coat, asking her into the kitchen. And gradually, the chatter started up again. John turned to Sherlock flush on his cheeks, unsure on what to do now. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock let Rosie playing with his curls happily. She had such tiny hands. He smiled to John, not daring to say anything, not daring to break this. Finally, he decided to start to talk, slowly, his smile not faltering the slightest. "I told her everything about you. I even read the blog to her, but...  She was more focused on a bird looking at us through the window." He glanced down for a second. "I gave her one of your jumpers." He didn't add he had kept an another one for himself. "She sleeps with it. She always loves curling up in it. Oh. About... Toys and plushies, and all the rest- I always made sure to choose the best one. I checked and made experiments about a copy of absolutely everything I let her use, to make certain it's safe.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John laughed, wanting nothing more than to press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. And yet, he restricted himself. Because the doctor well knew that if he allowed himself to get too close, he'd find himself hurt again. He ignored the bit about his blog, now having grown to detest it. It had started with that. That's how Max had gotten into what he'd created so caringly. But he couldn't help the smile that came across his face anyways, lighting him up with a warmth that he hadn't felt in forever. "Did you give her your favourite? The one that-" The one that John had worn when he'd gotten Sherlock his blue tin of biscuits. The one that had been covered with John's heartbroken tears and then matted with blood. John looked down, clearing his throat. "You always do what's best, Sherlock. Haven't had time to explode the kitchen with a baby running around, huh?" 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock glanced to Rosie, and teasingly touched her cheek. "I became a boring, banal..." He was going to say father. He didn't want to risk it, didn't want to hurt John. "...Version of myself. It's incredible, John. The flat is clean. To be honest, it's still a mess, but I locked the chemicals up, where she couldn't reach them. I stopped to go to crime scene, I only solve the ones I can study while staying at home. Sometimes, we go to the park. I prepare food for her, that she obviously doesn't eat.." He shook his head, chuckling silently. "I play with her, moving the bee in a ridiculous way in front of her. I'm ridiculous." He took a deep breath. "No, I didn't give her my favorite. I kept the favorite for myself." Sherlock whispered softly.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John looked up inquisitively at the detective. It had been ruined. For fucks sakes- it had a hole in it where John had been shot again! When John had been in Mycroft's car, it was true that the doctor hadn't known where his clothes had gone, but he'd just assumed that they had been thrown away. But obviously not. He allowed the expression to fall off his face, knowing that his stupid wallet still contained a stupid picture of Sherlock from their millionth post-case high. They were both attached. Chemical defects in both of their heads. At least boring and banal had been better than what John had gone through. John wouldn't wish for anyone to go through what'd he'd had to go through. There had been nights of tears. Others of screams. Other of broken promises including blades, blood, and bathroom floors. John shook himself out of his thoughts, "You've always been ridiculous." And that's what i've always loved about you. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock couldn't help but chuckling softly. "Yes, I have." He kissed the girl's temple. "I've always been a ridiculous man. It's just..." He blushed. "It's just you. You make me less ridiculous. You make me the best man I can be." The detective looked away, no longer daring to see John's face. He felt utterly ashamed to have taken Rosie away from the doctor, to not have been here for him when he needed to not be alone. "Rosie made me a better person too.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Not less ridiculous enough to be a faithful boyfriend, though. The doctor kept his mouth shut, afraid that something that would ruin the moment would slip out, pulling his lips into a tight smile instead. He reached out when Rosie did the same, her hands in the air and her fists clenching and unclenching as a sign of being wanted to be picked up. He did, pulling his daughter onto his lap, careful of the carving that the Moriarties had done. It had turned out that the wounds had been deep enough to expose his nerves and turn his skin purple with hypertrophic scar tissue- which was only just fucking great because now they'd react to everything just as his shoulder did. John exhaled with a bit more force when he did so, wanting to simply take the ache of his pain away. He smiled down a silly, boyish smile at his daughter and leant into her the tiniest bit, tickling her as he cooed, "You're like a charm, Rosie! Of course, you made your Sherlock a better person- just look at you!" She giggled, his face lit up with glee as she pressed her lips to John's cheek, a warm glow running through both father and daughter.

 

-x-x-x

 

Sherlock watched the adorable scene between the two. Rosie was happy, and therefore, the detective was too. "I wasn't lying when I told you I missed going on  crime scenes. That's not that I don't love spending my time taking care of her, but... I'd like to rest, sometimes." He cleared his throat. "She's your daughter. She is… yours." He glanced down. "So, maybe? Maybe you could?" 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John nodded in understanding. "Well, sweetheart, if you're staying over at mine- we're going to have to take you to do a little shopping, huh?" The girl babbled a bit, reaching out for Sherlock and simply laying on his torso, her head squished to the side facing John as her arms and legs dangled over his sides. John looked at Sherlock, at how stupidly stunning and beautiful he and Rosie were. John bent down, whispering into Rosie's ear, "I know, he's my favourite, too." He pulled back, grin on his face as he took the pair in.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock felt happy, happier than he had been in what seemed to be forever. He would have given anything he had to just make the stop and freeze to this second of Rosie's never ending smile, and John's true joy. He would have been the happiest man if he could have just kept this second, forever, living in that scene. 

 

It was impossible, though, and the time kept running away. Someday, Rosie would be grown up, and someday, John... John would hate him again. Sadness filled his eyes for an instant. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John turned, daring to snuggle closer to Sherlock, the weight of two of them sinking space on the sofa. Rosie sat beside them now, sucking her thumb. The night was ending and it be damned if John wasn’t going to squeeze each and every bit of happiness from it as he could. He threw his hand over Sherlock’s shoulder, pulling him impossibly closer before using his small, soft, surgeon hands to loving run his fingers through the man. It was evident that Sherlock had put time and effort into his look. But it didn’t matter. Sherlock Holmes was the most beautiful, stunning man he ever knew, even if it was morning light and he had a dribble of spit running down his plush lips. Or if he was in his armour, suit and coat cladding his body, eyes sharp as deductions ran through his head. His Sherlock. This was his Sherlock. If John turned and faced the man next to him, he would recognize him, much unlike the entirety of last year, starting from when Sherlock had-… Good things. Only those were allowed today. John sighed, melting against his Sherlock as they both watched their daughter play with the creases of Sherlock’s shirt.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock breathed in, breathed John's scent. It had changed a bit, but not that much. He still smelled like his John, from before the pain and the betrayal. He focused on the sensation of him, because it was all that mattered right now. Getting the best of the best moments of their lives. It was short, so short. He felt the urge to wrap his arms around John and kiss him. He didn't dare to. 

He wanted to tell how much he loved him. But he failed.

The tears he had been holding back since so long expressed it instead of his words, then. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *in show host voice* Will john kiss him or cry with himmm? stick around to fiiinnnddd out. 
> 
> i'm really sucky at chapter notes, i'm sorry, guys, here's another treat to thank you for putting up with me: 🧁


	37. Chapter 37

He wanted to tell how much he loved him. But he failed.

The tears he had been holding back since so long expressed it instead of his words, then. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John heard the small sniffles next to him and instantly pulled back. It was obvious that he had crossed some line. He looked down, guilt-stricken. Of course it had been a mistake to assume that Sherlock would want same from the night as he did. And now the man was crying. John sat, not knowing else to do, his hands still feeling the reminiscence of the detectives soft hair, nearly all of him smelling of Sherlock from their close proximity. He cleared his throat, feeling the sadness run through him once more. Who had he been to ever think that Sherlock would love him the same he had done Max? The tension in Johns shoulders returned as he averted his eyes, feeling out of place and without his home once more.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock shivered, suddenly feeling cold as John shifted away. Awkwardly, the detective quickly wiped his tears away, but more ran down his face. He gasped. "S-Sorry... I'm sorry." He shook his head, sniffing. "Not your fault..." He forced himself to smile, a weak, shaky smile. "It's just..." He paused. "Memories. Of how it used to be." Quickly, he added. "Between us. How it was... Sorry." Sherlock looked away and fell silent. He shouldn't have talked about the period when they were still together. John was going to leave and he'd be alone again. A sob shook his body. He hated so much to cry. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Though it was evil, terrible, and horrible, John felt a small spark of content watching Sherlock’s tears schadenfreude running through his veins for the briefest of seconds. The sobs rocketed his body just as they had done with John, who had gripped the railings and cried more than his heart out. The river behind him barely moving as the doctor had felt the salt from his tears drip into his mouth, which had been forced open for breathing when his nose had blocked. Though John hated himself for feeling his pettiness, he couldn’t help it. He hesitated for a few seconds, repulsively enjoying Sherlock’s sadness racket through him the same way that John had felt his heart break, images of Sherlock and his Max in the living room, the man pullling up his trousers and Sherlock simply staring at John in red handed shock. Perhaps it was what the Moriarties had done to the doctor. But... even though that was an infuriatingly large part of it, John knew plain and simple that he wanted Sherlock to know the pain he’d been in. What the man had done. The betrayal, torture, dreams, and pure, flat out hurt. This all only took a few seconds before the pair were interrupted, Mrs Hudson walking in, curious of the funny noises that were coming out of Sherlock. She looked flat at John, who had his mouth slightly unhinged, shock still in him from both his thoughts and Sherlock’s actions. Her look turned into a quiet glare, hatred shining at the innocent man through her eyes. “I think you should leave, John.” The doctor looked between his ex landlady and his ex boyfriend, lips moving to form a protest. “And leave Rosie here.” John stood, his walls back up and his shoulders set even, nearly slipping into Captain Watson mode. He didn’t bother nodding before he walked over to the door and pushed on it, walking out onto the cold, dark, empty London night.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock's lower lip shook, and before he could protest, John was gone. The detective glared to his landlady, sniffing through his tears. "Why. Why did you do that." He used his sleeves to dry his eyes. "Why did you make him leave, Mrs Hudson?" He couldn't get actually mad to the landlady. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John walked away. From home. Friends. Happiness. And into the lonely winter night. The world around him kept moving, but John was solitary, constantly hurt and a simple block of wood that was thrown away after it was broken.  He had been so close. To feeling absolute bliss of the people he trusted, and then he’d been turned away. Of course it had been too good to be true. The doctor wandered through the London streets, eventually making it back to his B&B.

 

 


	38. Chapter 38

-x-x-x-x

—————

Weeks Later

—————

 

"Hello? Is it still the number of John Watson?" Sherlock glanced to Rosie, who was joyfully playing with the toys and plushies she had gotten for Christmas. Despite the detective's protest, Mrs Hudson and the others had bought gifts for her. He wanted to throw everything away but the girl had already started to rip the papers off. He was still feeling uncomfortable to see her touch and play with things he hadn't checked before. Maybe Mycroft had been right when he said he was being much too overprotective of her. "It's about..." He paused, unable to say 'your daughter'. "It's about Rosie. Lestrade called, said there was an interesting case. Maybe you could take care of her in the meantime? If you're not busy. Everything is already ready. I prepared her food in the fridge, many different boxes, so, you just have to show them, and she'll point to the one she wants to eat. Her clothes are in a drawer in my room, the first one, but don't pick up onesies from the left. They're not warm enough." He took a breath, trying to relax. "I'll explain the rest to you later. If you'd like.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Finally. John walked out of the building, thoroughly annoyed and irritated. It was as if his therapist was purposefully trying to piss him off- seeing if that would somehow get the doctor to open up. Like hell it did. John fought his little petty want of wanting to flip off the building, instead moving his hands to his pockets and pulling out his ringing phone. He saw the number on the screen and though it wasn't a listed contact anymore, John be damned if he didn't know who's it was by heart. He held the phone to his ear as he tried his best to hail a cab, getting in once he managed it. "Yeah, of course, it's still me, you bastard." John's voice held nothing but good-hearted banter and slight tones of irritation carried over from his therapist's. 

 

John listened as Sherlock rambled, dutifully ignoring the bit where the man had hesitated saying your daughter. It was obvious and evident, his Sherlock had taught him how to tell when people were a wreck (from cases and all- body language and speech patterns were extremely important and something that idiot Yarders almost always missed.) John nodded to himself, listening to the man rant for a bit, "Sherlock- I'm a doctor and she's our daughter, for fuck's sakes- if I managed to take care of you and she's a mix of you and me, then we'll be as peachy as peaches on a sunny day." John rolled his eyes to himself, uncaring of how he sounded. "I'll see you there in a bit. Get yourself something nice while you're out, you mum." John disconnected the call, telling the cabbie to drive towards 221B Baker Street. Home.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, hearing John's words. Mum. He wasn't a mother hen, was he? He was just being careful. The detective kissed Rosie's forehead, explaining to her he was leaving because he needed to go to work,  but that her father would be here. When he heard John at the door, he kissed her tiny hands, then got up and quickly opening to him.

 

The detective was a mess. He had so many things to say and so little time, so he started to speak really quickly. "If you see her sucking her thumb, you have to gently remove her hand. I read somewhere that if children suck their thumb for too long, their teeth won't grow normally. Better safe than sorry. Instead, give her the skull. She loves playing with it. If she starts to cry and you can't figure out why, play the violin. Well, play a records of me playing the violin, there's one in a CD on the table. If she doesn't want to eat, and it happens often, don't force her. If you do, she gets sick and she throws up everywhere. Instead, wait for a while and try again." He paused, to breath. "Wash your hands before touching her, you're coming from outside, you carry bacterias and viruses, and other nasty stuff. Talking about nasty stuff, remove your shoes. And..." Sherlock frowned. "I think... I think it's all. If you have question, ask me now, or text me." He smiled shyly. "It's nice to see you. “

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John listened to Sherlock's words with a small smile on his face as he toed off his shoes. Once the detective was done, John put his hand over the side of his lips, tilting a bit and used a whisper like tone to talk to Rosie, who was simply looked up at the pair, curiosity in her eyes. "You've really changed your Sherlock, Rosie Love." John grinned at her while she babbled intelligently back a shrug-like motion played on her shoulders. John straightened, looking at Sherlock properly, all aggravating memories of therapist office be damned. "Be safe- if you need anything..." John allowed for the offering of a vatican cameos to hang in the air before he nodded, walking behind Sherlock and towards Rosie. "Have you missed me, sweetheart?" The girl smiled back, a hint of white tooth poking from under her gums. "Yeah, yeah, papa's missed you, too, Rosie." 

 

He looked back over his shoulder, Rosie now walked into the space that was created when John had crossed his legs, setting her bum content and looking up at John, telling him the stories he hadn't been there to witness himself. "It's nice to see you, too, Sherlock. Now go before Scotland Yard's finest get themselves killed or something." John chuckled, turning his attention back down at Rosie, replying to her conversation. 

 

-x-x-x-x

Sherlock glanced to the adorable scene of John and Rosie talking together, before allowing himself to leave the flat. He was having a hard time relaxing and not wondering each second if Rosie was fine, but finally, once he was on the crime scene, he started to being his old, confident self. And it was very good, to be able to focus on solving the murder instead of knowing if Rosie was alright or not.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John let out a playful screams as he was “tackled” by his daughter. “Rosie!! Nooooo! What’ve you done?! You’ve killed the monster!” The girl giggled, proceeding to crawl onto Johns torso, sitting as she looked down with life shining in her eyes. She moved around a little, shifting her tiny hips back as if she was riding the back of a, “Horse, papa!” The toddler squealed, forcing a sigh out of John. “Yeah, alright- god, Rose, I’m too old for this.” 

 

She squealed as she was gently slid off her fathers torso, him positioning so that he was on all fours, knees and elbows bent so close to the ground, so that the toddler could brace herself against him as she tugged at his shirt, managing to pull herself onto the mans back. “Yeah, hold on now, love!” John used his left hand to sturdy her while he used the right for his own balance, getting up onto his knees and locking his elbows, rising his daughter into the air. Rosie laughed, a chortle flowing easily out of her as she fisted John’s jumper tighter. The doctor slowly moved over to the fireplace from their original position of just by the doors. As the nearer the warmth, his daughters energy slowed and she simply lied down, small limbs dangling off the backside of John’s torso. The doctor safely got her down, her now-tired form looking up at him sleepily. “Yeah, that’s good, Mary. How’d you get so tired anyway?” The girl looked up at him, not recognizing the name she had been addressed. She took her finger out of her mouth, her lips practicing the word before she put any voice into them.

 

“Mumuh?” John smiled, realizing his mistake. He looked at the curled figure, warmed by the soft carpet, fire, and utter content. 

 

“Yeah, sorry, love. Your name’s Rosie, you just, erm.” John looked away. Even if Mary herself was dead, she was still their daughter’s mother. Rosamund tugged at his jeans. “She’s your mum, darling. And I’m your dad. And so’s  Sherlock- though we’re not, err- you don’t need to hear this, you’re only two, Rose. You don’t understand half the things I say.” Rosie gave him (one of Sherlock’s famous) don’t be an idiot, John look. “Mummy?” She repeated. John lied down, his back on the carpet as he looked to the ceiling, mimicking Rosie’s body posture perfectly except that she was looking at him. He snuggled in closer, softly moving as not to accidentally hurt his daughter. He turned, facing her, both sets of matching eyes staring at the others, observing unimaginable emotion. “She’s right here, love. She’s with both Sherlock and I and we’ll always show her to you when you need her- and eventually, we’ll teach you so that you’ll be able to feel her in you, too.” Rose leaned forwards, pressing a soft kiss to Johns nose. “Yeah, yeah, c’mere,” the doctor pulled his daughter close, and the two of them wandered off to sleep, not feeling an ounce of pain as they felt their important third ghosting love through their hearts.


	39. Chapter 39

“Yeah, yeah, c’mere,” the doctor pulled his daughter close, and the two of them wandered off to sleep, not feeling an ounce of pain as they felt their important third ghosting love through their hearts.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

The third stair creaked as Sherlock stepped on it. He was back later than he had told John, but the case had been more interesting than he’d expected. He felt relaxed, the adrenaline and pleasure he got from solving a case pulsating inside him, bliss and peace in his heart. He felt... Good. He felt himself. Entering the flat, he smiled to John and Rosie. They looked adorable, father and daughter together, finally.

 

Sherlock didn't feel jealous to see the girl loving him, and it was less scary than he had planned it to be. Because he knew her heart was big enough for the two of them. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John shook awake, his limbs contracting harshly, pulling his legs up, curling around his daughter to protect him from the figure that had stepped through the door. The army man's eyes were open and dangerous, trying his best to sort out who the figure was and what its intentions were. The figure more or less froze and gave John nearly no stimuli to respond with attack to. The moonlight and reflections off of London's life illuminating the creature’s skin. Pale. Through his haze, the word fluttered through John's mind, forcing him to concentrate further. Lips. Cheekbones. Eyes. Curls. 

 

John blinked, relaxing back onto the ground before swinging himself up, trying his best to keep quiet while his daughter slept. She moved lightly before settling back, uncomfortable at the sudden lack of warmth from beside her, her source of protecting having moved away. The doctor forced the yawn back into his mouth, eyes looking over the man in an instinctive search for any harm. "How was the case?" He whispered. In truth, John missed them. The adrenaline rush. The guns, the fighting. But there was also that bit of the picture where he'd have to personally take care of Sherlock. Forcing the man to eat and sleep. And if he did neither, mimicking him, not leaving his side as his detective's eyes moved behind his eyelids, lost in his mind palace. Though John didn't allow himself to think of it much, he missed Sherlock. More than he felt he could possibly miss anyone. He took a step or two back, realizing how close he'd gotten to his friend. "Did you solve it?”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock smiled warmly to John, his John. If only he hadn't messed up what he had. It was the best. The best moments of his life. He still thought about Max, sometimes, but he always regretted to have accepted to get involved in that affair. To have ended up loving him. "I solved it. It was interesting. And so, so good, John.” He breathed in, like if a weight had been removed from him. “Thank you for watching her while I was away. Maybe..." He cleared his throat. "Maybe someday, you could... Follow me on a case?”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

That was a terrible idea. It was horrid, and a complete, total mistake- but how John craved to be around Sherlock. How he wanted and loved the feeling it gave him. But it would only lead to regret. Anytime that he got too close to Sherlock, he would find himself burnt and scarred. The initials carved on his torso ached painfully in sudden reminder. Nonetheless, John found himself look up hopefully at the detective. Oh god yes, Sherlock. The thought ran through him, lighting up his mind with excitement of being needed like Sherlock had needed him. 

 

But was that truth? The last time Sherlock had needed him.... well, he'd found someone else. He forced a smile on his face, fighting his thoughts while he nodded, "Yeah, that'd be nice." Again. You could fix me again. You could make me whole like you had in the past. But for god's sakes. Don't break me this time. John curved his lips into a harsher smile before he turned looking at his daughter. "Could she stay at mine for a bit, just-" Just that John was lonely. Without having someone to care for, his life felt more or less pointless- which it was. He cleared his throat. Legally, Rosie was John's daughter and the man obviously would hesitate a bit before he ripped what seemed to be such a major part of Sherlock's life. But then again, Sherlock had ripped all of John out, leaving only a bespoke machine.

 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock glanced to Rosie, his daughter. Even if John was the one who made her, he had been the one carrying her, soothing her tears. He fed her, kissed her hair. But Sherlock knew it had only been possible because he had lied and took her away from her actual father. It still felt like a strange tearing inside his heart when he nodded. It was fair, but it was painful. "We could do that, but..." He cleared his throat. "You need to prepare your flat before. I'm certain everything isn't cleaned up nor safe. And you have to lock away the sharp objects. And I'll give you a list of things you need to buy, only safe and the material are....." He fell silent. "Mother hen, right?" Sherlock smiled weakly. "I know you love her, John. And she is... Our daughter. You can keep her with you for a few days if you'd like.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John's smiled turned real. Sherlock was adorable. The doctor couldn't force his body to stop when it two steps forwards and wrapped its arms around the lanky figure. He buried his head into Sherlock's neck, placing a soft kiss there before murmuring, "It's all fine, 'lock, you could help me out if you wanted- should come over sometime." The detective smelled like his. this was his Sherlock. And John be damned if he said it wasn't affecting him. His heart was more or less aching with need for something John would never let it have. The doctor pulled himself back, tugging at his jumper and collecting himself. "That... was a bit not good. Sorry." John stood, looking up at Sherlock, "Yeah, I should- I should go now.”

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock gasped when John hugged him. It felt... Real. It felt like before, nice and sweet. It was over much too quickly but Sherlock's cheekbones were red and pink. "That was... Good. That was good." He whispered, before looking to Rosie again. "Yeah, obviously. You're busy, I understand. Thanks. I hope I will see you soon again..." He smiled softly. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Busy? There was nothing in the world that John wouldn't throw away just to be with Rosie. He turned back at her, crouching and kneeling before he bent down a pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. Subconsciously, the girl tried to return it, pushing her own lips out in goodbye. John smile, letting his fingers to her lips just to fulfill her dream and got back up, walking over to the coat rack. He tugged on his coat and walked toward the door of the flat, away from his home. His family. And back into the world he absolutely dreaded. "I hope so, too, Sherlock." And he really did. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock watched John leaving the flat, only stopping to look at him when he could no longer see the man he loved. He then went to Rosie's side, picking her up her and carefully carrying her to the tiny bed he had prepared for the girl. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead and laid down in his own bed, listening to any noises that could warn him about a problem.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

John walked back home, his head swimming and in high truth- content. He unlocked the door to his boring B&B, stripping off his shirt and jeans as he did so. The doctor didn't bother looking in the mirror- he hadn't looked for quite some time because it was very well known that John wouldn't like what he saw. He crawled into bed, turned off his lamp, and dreamt about happiness for the first time in days.

 

And then it started. They were small increases in breathing. Then moans. Then groans. Then came the chill, gasps, twists, and murmurs. Behind his eyes, memories, hurt, pain, and just what if's played out. The doctor turned his head from side to side, muttering small no’s and pleases all as he watched his stomach bleed all over again. His shoulder shot all over again. And watch Moriarty break him all over again, coaxing, whispering, touching- leaving aftereffects that would simply give the doctor chills if he saw it in a patient. His nerves ached with the onslaught of emotions, knife wound had been stitched, but hurt nonetheless, gunshot wound was the same, though not sown as well- it wasn't better nor worse than the first time. But the carvings. The carvings ached constantly. And John thought about them constantly. A reminder that he'd never be the same, a branding stating that he was broken, weak, theirs. 

 

The doctor woke when he saw a particularly terrible scene, unable to handle his unconsciousness. "Sherlock," he whispered, searching for the man he loved beside him, knowing that his boyfriend would be there to assist him. But he wasn't. John's heart rate increased, suddenly scared. His palms clammy as he found himself with a sheen coat of cold sweat. John scrambled for his phone, wanting to calm, to find any sort of peace. His hands shook, nerves making his small hands quiver. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he begged to himself, looking for the contact. It had worked before this whole mess, soothing his horrid dreams from the war. Perhaps it would work again.

 

Sherlock. JW

 

Do you have recordings of you playing still? JW 

 

Before John could think better of it:

 

Could you send me some? JW 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

When Sherlock woke up to the noise of his phone ringing, he knew something was wrong. But when he saw John's name on the screen, his heart accelerated in worry, and quickly, his fingers started to type.

 

 

Yes. SH

 

But I can come over if you'd like. SH

 

If John was looking for records of his violin, it wasn't for the sake of music, it meant nightmares. And nightmares meant never leaving John alone. 

 

“I'm coming over. SH” He added, before getting dressed in a hurry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's surprisingly fun to read what you've written. i'm actually having a blast updating this fic. 🥧 here's some nice apple pie, for you lovlies.


	40. Chapter 40

If John was looking for records of his violin, it wasn't for the sake of music, it meant nightmares. And nightmares meant never leaving John alone. 

 

“I'm coming over. SH” He added, before getting dressed in a hurry. 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

"You're not real." Moriarty grinned from where he leant on the door, arms crossed and looking at John. "Of course not, Johnny boy! I'm dead." The man walked closer- or at least the hallucination of the man. "Stop." John slid back, back against the wall and torso facing against Jim. The hallucination ignored him, instead smiling wider as he got closer. He crawled on top of the bed and straddled John's thighs. He looked down at his v-line, looking at his own art. "These are beautiful, Johnny," he said, as his finger ghosted, tracing the space the same he'd done with the blade. Jim looked at the other one- his sister's, "I've always had the better handwriting, she was more of what you could call a knock-off Moriarty, I was the favourite." The man shrugged, leaning closer as he forced his lips against John's. "You are not real, Jim." The doctor pushed the man away harshly

 

"Of course I am, darling, you think this isn't real?" John screamed as he felt the pressure over his scars increase. Or at least it felt like it was increasing. By now, the doctor didn't know whether he was hallucinating or not. Perhaps he was hallucinating the pain as well. "Hush now, don't want your Sherlock finding you like this, do you? Battered up, refusing to even look at yourself because all you'll see is me standing over you." The man pressed a final kiss to John's lip, digging his finger in even harder into the heart he'd carved. "Because i'll always be in your head sweetheart, nothing will ever get me out- not even your pathetic little boy toy." 

 

And John closed his eyes, body shutting down, just as it had done the first time, and just as John felt it would stay forever.

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Mrs Hudson was an angel. This thought followed Sherlock as he called a cab, waving back to the landlady after having told her with a few words that she had to take care of Rosie. She didn't complain about the hour, she just nodded and reassured the detective with a squeeze of his shoulder. 

 

He rushed outside the vehicle, paying the driver without looking at him, and he hurried inside the Bed and Breakfast, holding his violin in his left hand. Just in case his voice wouldn't be enough. "John?" He warned, as he knocked to the door before opening it. "John, I'm here. It's me, Sherlock. You are safe, you’re safe. Hush. John. Shhht. Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me."

 

-x-x-x-

 

John still felt the pressure on his lap, the weight of Moriarty sending chills up his spine. He shuddered as James used his other hand to trail traces up his arm. "No- stop. You're dead. You can't-" John's protests were cut off as Moriarty used his once-gentle hand to clutch at the doctor's throat. "John?" The doctor forced himself to concentrate on the oddly familiar voice, hazily breaking through his insanity spell. The doctor closed his eyes harder as James increased his grip, his hands turning white as John felt his face flush with effort and a lack of oxygen. "You're safe, John." The voice was back, fighting through John's layers of torture and walking the chills on his skin. "Look at me, open your eyes and look at me." 

 

"Don't even pay attention to that voice, John- you know he won't save you. Not again. Not after I've taken you apart. He'll never have the patience to put you back together after what I did." John grunted, listening to James' voice whisper in his ear, feeling the man's teeth graze at the skin there. Perhaps he wasn't there. Perhaps he was hallucinating his friend's voice as well, too. But it sure as hell was worth a try. 

 

John forced his eyes open, blinking harshly as he saw Moriarty still straddling him, his face in concentration and his arm reached out to cut off John's breath. The doctor flinched as he felt another wave of pain cascade through him before he forced himself to turn to where his ex-lover's voice was coming from, the infinitely beautiful eyes looked down at John's own panicked ones. No- that couldn't be right. He would never do this for John again and the doctor had accepted that. Nonetheless, the doctor couldn't help but hope, his voice coming out hoarse and forced from his lack of oxygen.

 

"Sherlock. Tell me you're real." 

 

-x-x-x-x

 

Sherlock cupped John's face, his longs fingers holding with tenderness his skin. "I'm here." He said again, firmly, looking into the doctor's eyes. He had to be strong, to ignore his own sadness. He had to be the rock John needed to grab and hold in the hurricane of his mind. "I'm real. I'm real, and I'm not leaving." His thumb stroked the cheek of his love very slowly. "Whatever monsters you see, whoever’s chasing you, they’re a lie. They don't exist." He paused. "And if they do, if they exist. I'll chase them and erase them. I'm here, John. You are safe." The detective breathed in, before taking John's hand in his own and pressing it against his chest. "Here. Do you feel my heart? Focus on it. Focus on slowing it down. I know you can, you control it." He confessed. "You control my heart."

 

-x-x-x-x

 

As Sherlock took his hand to his chest, John instinctively moved his other to cover his branding. Sherlock didn't need to see them. He didn't need to know how unravelled John truly was. The doctor wished he had millions of hands, just so he could cover each and every scar of his- knowing that Sherlock didn't know the sole cause of a whole set of them.

 

They were John. 

 

The months before Greg had invited him to share his Christmas, John had bled, head dizzy as he had watched the red pool in the deep parallel wounds, almost artistically cut over his hip, spreading forwards to the brandings as if they were all birds drawn to a tree. They had scarred, leaving patterns of skill, a steady hand with years of practice as a harmer and practice of a surgeon. And now, they were simply shame. Shame that blended into his carvings, pooling at his hip. Moriarty and Isabella would've called them beautiful. And John couldn't help but feel the hint of proudness that his sick, twisted mind provided, but his remorse turned embarrassment overwhelmed the feeling to almost nothing. 

 

He forced his breathing to still, his eyes panicked as the looked up at Sherlock, not believing a single word that came out of the detective's mouth. How could he? He had been given enough confirmation to never had a reason to trust this man again, and sadly, that outweighed what Sherlock had done for him. Because the confirmation had been firmed and pounded into his mind, over and over by the Moriarty siblings. And it seemed to scar his mind as well. They had left their marks all over, inside and out, mental and physical.

 

Nonetheless, John leant closer, feeling Sherlock's breathing and heartbeat, forcing himself to calm so that his detective could do the same. Sherlock had given him a purpose, and John be damned if he wasn't going to snatch that opportunity to ground himself. Even if John controlled Sherlock's heart, the doctor wasn't sure that he could ever fix it back to how it was. And how could a broken heart fix a demolished one?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i should've probably done trigger warnings but i also consider trigger warnings to be spoilers. and aren't tags enough of a warning? you know what you're getting yourself into when you come into our angst-ridden world. 🍯 here's some honey for you, you poor things.

**Author's Note:**

> My brilliant Camille I wrote this together. If you happen across bad writing, it's probably mine. Still a work-in-progress, though it's already quite long. Oh, and if you're wondering on who wrote what, the pattern is: Me, her, me, her... and so on. (Basically, I play John and she plays Sherlock for the most part.)


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